


Taphonomy

by Darker_Side



Series: You are the Blood Under my Nails [1]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Bamf Chloe, Banter, Danse Macabre of Sex, Dead Dove content throughout, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Effects of childhood trauma, F/M, Fighting, First Meeting, Flashbacks, High-End Escort!Chloe, Judgement of Motives, Life is a Curse, Lucifer and his wit, Mild Blood, Mild Injury, Mommy Issues Resurface, Murder Methods as Dirty Talk, Murder Porn, Necrophilia, Nothing kills the mood here, Open Ending, Rough Sex, Sexual Sadism, Wealthy Businessman!Lucifer, a play is made, artistic post-murder fantasies, curious connection, deep inside some fucked up minds, delusions of grandeur, descriptions of homicidal urges, discussions of past-rape, minor descriptions of child abuse, nonconsensual sedation, poor decisions, real life AU, serial killer au, serial killer generalizations, soliciting to murder, switching POVs, that no one asked for but me, urge to kill, when two Doms collide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26586535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darker_Side/pseuds/Darker_Side
Summary: He had been in the city for close to a week, expected to leave in two days to go check-in on an East Coast club he had just acquired in a business deal. It was either now or never for the rest of the month, and that just wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t be conducive to remaining the enigmatic businessman he had branded himself. How could he remain poised and charming when all he wanted to do was crawl out of his skin? How could he be sure he wouldn’t snap and strangle some poor intern who happened to be in the office after hours?He justhadto get one in.--She received the text from her employer that she had been requested for the evening. One thing that never seemed fair was that the men (or women) got to see a picture of her before purchasing, but she never got to see who she would have to entertain. It wasn’t like it mattered much; they were all the same. Well, typically. There had been a few times where a man had surprised her, being humble and shy, unsure of what to do or how to treat her. It had been endearing, seeing the innocence of new money before the world of riches and unending pleasures hooked them in and took away any part worth saving.Those were the men she let live.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Series: You are the Blood Under my Nails [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043991
Comments: 220
Kudos: 170





	1. Autolysis

**Author's Note:**

> Wonderful artwork done by the equally wonderful [Luni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_Luniana_x)  
> She's amazing, so don't just take my word for it and go show her some love :)  
> **Quote on the artwork is by Anne Rice
> 
> Song to put you in the mood:  
> [Welcome to the Jungle (feat. Fleurie) // Produced by Tommee Proffit](https://youtu.be/rk82Tz9Kbos)
> 
> There’s some negative sex-worker language in this fic, however, that is simply the way it applies to Lucifer’s views in the fic. I am sex-worker positive, and I think that all adults can do what they want with their own bodies. Sex work is fine, as long as it is consensual and between two adults. The language and views depicted in this fic are solely for the purpose of portraying the ideologies of both Chloe and Lucifer. That’s it. They are, by no means, my own personal views on anything in this story. Take it for what it is: a story about serial killers who kill people for reasons they believe to be just.  
> I'd like to say this is for those that enjoy Criminal Minds, 48 Hours, and anything related to criminal psychology. This is in no way intended to be taken as factual in any sense. I'm using my own knowledge base and passion for the subject to create the world and it's functioning in this fic.
> 
> This is not a How-To... if that wasn't obvious.  
> 
> 
> ****Tags are to be added with each chapter, if necessary. Please be sure to check the tags on each update!!! I want you all to enjoy the experience and tap-out when you reach your comfort limit! I care about you all!**

* * *

**_Lucifer_ **

The Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel wasn’t the finest establishment in the greater Los Angeles area, but it was far from the worst. Lucifer frequented the hotel for the aesthetic; warm, dark colors, an old-fashioned feel without seeming cliché or over-the-top. An old Hollywood meets modern comforts design. The alleged haunted past was something he found amusing, and although he didn’t believe in an afterlife, he held on to the notion that the Roosevelt could make him a believer if he ever experienced a bout of the paranormal. His stance came from a rather personal approach to the impossibility of an afterlife. He’d seen what happened once life no longer sparkled within the sclera of pretty eyes, once their skin, no matter the shade, lost its warmth and turned ashen, a pallor hard to describe.

While he hated them while they were breathing, the unmistakable beauty once they were unnaturally still was something he couldn’t ignore. They were breathtaking when they couldn’t ignore their responsibilities anymore, once they stopped being whores, letting any and every man inside them, tainting their bodies. Making them dirty. It was one of the reasons he did what he did. It was for the betterment of society, betterment for anyone growing up with someone like that as a role model and caretaker. With their last breath, he could feel tension flow from his shoulders for the first time since the last time. The release was better than anything, even sex, but he wasn’t opposed to mixing the two, it just usually never got that far before they pissed him off, forcing him to act sooner rather than later.

It had been a stressful week, full of meetings and travel, and he had not been able to get a moment to himself, to release any tension. The people he had brought back to his various luxury hotel suites had all been part of the conferences he had attended, part of the businesses he had either bought or sold. Too close to home for any of his games. That was why he found himself in the [Gable & Lombard](https://www.thehollywoodroosevelt.com/rooms/tower/penthouse-gable-lombard) penthouse at the Roosevelt. He had been in the city for close to a week, expected to leave in two days to go check-in on an East Coast club he had just acquired in a business deal. It was either now or never for the rest of the month, and that just wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t be conducive to remaining the enigmatic businessman he had branded himself. How could he remain poised and charming when all he wanted to do was crawl out of his skin? How could he be sure he wouldn’t snap and strangle some poor intern who happened to be in the office after hours?

He just _had_ to get one in.

The concierge at the counter in the lobby had been stunning. Her dark skin had been vibrant and warm, her eyes a gorgeous shade of chocolate brown. A body to _kill_ for. When she had asked if Lucifer would like an _exclusive room service menu_ , he hadn’t hesitated to agree. He knew the language for these finer establishments. Knew exactly what that meant. She had assured him she would bring it up to his penthouse personally, and the thought of getting to see her again had made his stomach flutter. The confident knock on the door reintroduced those feelings to him as he stood up from his seat on the leather couch, glass of Macallan, neat, in his hand. He opened the door and was, again, floored with just how extraordinarily beautiful the woman was. 

“Hello, again, Mr. Morningstar,” she said with a sparkling and polite smile. “As promised, I’ve brought the exclusive menu,” she added, holding out a prestigious-looking booklet, made of cardstock and gold-leaf.

When he took the booklet, he noticed the platinum nametag on her left breast, and smiled. “Thank you, Mazikeen,” he said, rolling her name off of his tongue easily, and he liked the way it sounded.

“Of course, Sir,” the woman said, her smile never faltering. She was used to being charmed, no doubt. A woman looking like that probably never felt rejection. “When you’ve found something you like, just call down to the lobby, ask for me, and I can help you with whatever it is.”

“Excellent,” he drawled, taking a sip from his glass, eyeing Mazikeen up and down subtly. He wasn’t one to care about being caught looking, saw it only as complimentary, but there was something in the way the woman seemed completely at ease being admired. He appreciated someone who knew what they had and didn’t try to hide it.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Sir,” she said before lightly ducking her head and walking away from the door. He peered out, watched as her perky ass swayed in her tight pencil skirt, and then closed the door. He meandered back over to the couch, menu in hand, and collapsed back down into the well-maintained leather. 

There was something to admire about the superb quality of the menus. How the cardstock was thick and stiff, always felt sturdy, almost dusty with how textured the paper was. They were printed on paper, not meant to be returned, and changed quarterly, or when necessary. Lucifer was familiar with the necessary changes. He was one of the reasons for them, unbeknownst to the men and women who organized such _meetings_. 

He spent a good portion of the following hour flipping through the menu, looking at the high-quality photos printed, the statistics listed out in perfect order, easy to read and make the best decision. He was picky, a little specific with his needs and wants. Appearance was important, sure, but it was more _who_ the person was, who they were on the inside, what he would make them look like once he had them at his mercy, exposed and unable to hind behind a lofty job. 

A few of the things he looked for were: childbearing age, previous pregnancies, lactating, and, one of the physical attributes he preferred, dark blonde hair. If he couldn’t find any to fit that billet, he’d pick the next best option, and maybe that would scratch his itch, if not, one more person got to leave the hotel the same way they came: breathing and with a pulse. 

It was a part of himself he wished he could change. The only part, actually. He just hated how fucking predictable he was. He wasn’t an idiot, he understood how certain psychopathologies lead to certain targets, certain characteristics that are wanted, but he _hated_ that he was actually like that. It was textbook, and it prided himself on being anything but ordinary. 

He started off like any other birthed being: a mother and a father. The father quickly left, once his mother’s erratic behavior became too much for him, including all the fucking children he gave her. Left with nothing, he and his siblings struggled with their mother, who turned to prostitution to support them. The _them_ became a metaphor because she became addicted to drugs, whatever else they could put into her system besides bodily fluids. He was beat by her johns, beat for protecting his sisters from them. It wasn’t until their mother got herself killed by one of the many men that put their dicks in her that his life turned around.

He was adopted by a wealthy woman, Lilith, who wanted a boy-toy she could call _son_ out in public. He couldn't hate the woman too much, she gave him a better life than the pussy who birthed him ever could, but being forced to fuck a woman twice his age for food and shelter grew old really quick. When he was old enough, he figured out how to blackmail her, having recorded many of their _evenings_ together. She put him through an Oxford education, got him out of the country, and that was where he became the man he was. He excelled in business school, had money from the _settlement_ (as he called it) to purchase a run-down boxing gym and turn it into one of the fastest growing nightclubs in the greater Los Angeles area. 

He was a self-grown business mogul, all before the age of 40.

But having endless supplies of women, women that reminded him of his mother, quickly gave-way to more depraved behaviors than snorting cocaine off their asses or cumming only after they started crying. 

So yes, he became one of those men who killed women who reminded him of his piece of shit mother. Fucking textbook. But it wasn’t like he chose that. It wasn’t like the chemical deficiencies in his brain could be controlled to pick a more exciting or original _type_. 

Regardless, it scratched the itch. That urge that ate away at him until he gave in. That was for damn sure. 

He made a second drink to bring himself back to the task at hand, but he was beginning to lose hope. The menu was extensive, large, a wonderful library to choose from, and it was the second to last page, the page of executive orders, ones that were well above the average rate, but always for a good reason. There she was, honey-blonde hair, average build, previous pregnancy, and absolutely _stunning_ features. It was her. He found it. She would scratch the itch, she would make his blood buzz beneath his skin. She could make all the voices in his head quiet down, at least for a while, until he had to do it again. 

Chloe. That was the name to the left of the picture. He immediately liked that name. Normal enough to be real, but still exotic enough to be a cover for a woman wanting her _work_ to remain a dirty little secret. 

Biting his lip as he walked over to the phone on the nightstand, he dialed the 0 and waited for Mazikeen’s smooth voice to tickle his ear. “Yes, this is Mr. Morningstar, in the Gable & Lombard penthouse. I’d like to place an order.” 

He knew the procedure well. No paper trail, no electronic trail beyond an additional _room service_ charge to his account. It wouldn’t seem all that surprising, he knew of champagne that was nearly as expensive. To say he ordered a few bottles would be nothing out of the ordinary. Pierce’s organization was fantastic in the way they kept everything below the belt, pun intended. There was nothing to raise suspicion, no CC TV anywhere. Lucifer wasn’t even sure why the men and women who worked for Pierce did it. There was nothing to protect them from people like Lucifer. However, their pay was immense. They made their money, that was for sure, so the risk was well worth the reward.

He made another drink, he’d make _Chloe’s_ when she arrived. Whatever she wished. He knew he wanted to make that one last, just off her picture and profile alone. She was stunning, perfect in every way. Exactly what he was looking for. He was even hoping to get a little action before the main event. 

Maybe he’d even get started with his cock inside of her. 

He felt himself start to swell in his pants, and halted his thoughts immediately. He’d _not_ be one of those schmucks that was hard before the girl even arrived. 

\--- 

**_Chloe_ **

She received the text from her employer that she had been requested for the evening. One thing that never seemed fair was that the men (or women) got to see a picture of her before purchasing, but she never got to see who she would have to _entertain_. It wasn’t like it mattered much; they were all the same. Well, typically. There had been a few times where a man had surprised her, being humble and shy, unsure of what to do or how to treat her. It had been endearing, seeing the innocence of new money before the world of riches and unending pleasures hooked them in and took away any part worth saving.

Those were the men she let live.

Until they called on her again, months or years down the road, and were tainted by the fortune of never being told no, and the ability to buy whatever they wished. When they thought they could buy her and do whatever they wanted to her. Like she was just a _thing_ and not a living, breathing human.

That was when they died.

Chloe couldn’t have imagined that she would kill people, that she would have the gall to do so. She had grown up normally, as normal as anyone could with a washed-up ‘80s film-star for a mother and a beat-cop for a father. They each loved her in their own ways, but she always felt she related more to her father, even when she followed in her mother’s footsteps and got into acting. At the ripe age of 19, her tits had been on display for the nation, and she couldn’t erase the look of disappointment hidden behind her father’s eyes, even when he told her he was proud of her. Her mother was around enough to hold some influence, but made Chloe feel inadequate any chance she got. She was never thin enough, never fancy enough, never girly enough. It was always something that made Chloe _not enough_. And she resented her mother for that.

Her father’s untimely death had hit her hard; hard enough to make her quit acting and go to the police academy. She excelled in both the academic and physical portions, and her father had taught her how to hold a weapon properly. She would have made the perfect officer, the perfect detective, in time. She hadn’t expected to fail the psych-eval, though, and when she was told that she didn’t qualify to be part of the Los Angeles Police Department, something snapped in her head. A head that was already jumbled and mixed with either too little emotion or too much. A head that didn’t understand why shooting a suspect was wrong. A head that got a little too angry sometimes, but that happened to a lot of people.

She met her ex-husband in the academy, and right after he graduated and started working, she became pregnant. She had never imagined herself as a mother, didn’t think she would be capable because she didn’t have a good example, because she was told she wouldn’t be good enough at anything other than looking pretty and exposing herself. Suddenly she was thrust into family life, a family she had no idea how to live with, terribly afraid she would fail at it, too.

Turned out, men seemed to be the problem with her. She loved motherhood. Holding her daughter for the first time had been an otherworldly experience, and she fell in love, for the first time, the moment she was put on her chest, screaming and covered in blood and fluids. She wasn’t a good wife, and Dan wasn’t a good husband. He was a decent father, but that just wasn’t enough to keep playing homemaker for. They got divorced when Trixie was 10 years old, and Chloe was able to breathe again.

She never told Dan why she had failed the Academy, and he never cared enough about her potential career to ask. If he had, he probably wouldn’t have married her. Homicidal tendencies and high psychopathy probability wouldn’t really look good for a potential wife. She couldn’t count the number of nights she spent laying wide awake, next to a man she fantasized about stabbing and shooting more nights than not. He hadn’t cheated on her, but he always expected sexual favors from her. He always acted like she couldn’t say no, like she _owed_ it to him to give him her body and all its holes. It disgusted her. It enraged her. But, he gave her Trixie, and that was his only saving grace. 

She checked herself in the mirror one last time before leaving. The dress she had chosen (that was a generous term; she had been given a wardrobe of escort-appropriate attire, but she was _allowed_ to choose from that) was slim-fitting, a deep royal purple. It was a cocktail dress, the hem coming to rest directly below the swell of her ass, just barely covering the goods in the front. It pushed her ample bust up, gave her those stripper tits all the guys seemed to fucking drool over. Her hair was long, straight except for a slight curl at the ends, and her makeup was fresh, her eyes dark, lips a deep mauve. She wore towering heels, not being a tall woman, but she wasn’t short, either. She loved to see the mens’ faces when she walked past and was taller than them. How they either hated it or loved it. 

_Fuck_ , she loved making them uncomfortable first. The shock in their eyes when she let their blood drain out nice and slow. The complete and utter incredulity that someone had the audacity to steal them from the world. As if they fucking mattered. 

She made it her life’s mission, the ultimate goal, to show those men that the world would just keep spinning after they were gone. Like nothing had happened. 

Chloe fixed her lipstick after smearing it on her teeth. Thinking about the end always got her too excited upfront. Always made her bite her lip and ruin the color on her lips. 

Grabbing the small handbag on the table, containing condoms, lube, a business card for Pierce’s _operation,_ and a thin syringe full of milky fluid, she walked out of the permanently booked room at the hotel for their escorts, male and female. Luckily, only one could use it at a time. 

She checked the details on her phone, saw she was heading to the Gable and Lombard penthouse. Another fucking highroller who probably couldn’t get it up any longer. She rolled her eyes, plastered on the best fake smile, and started heading for the elevator. It was called a penthouse, but it was more than that. It consisted of the top three floors of the hotel. The history behind the suite was nothing but Old Hollywood romanticism. It was everything that Hollywood was supposed to be, love, scandal, and extravagance. 

She hadn’t been to the penthouse in a while. It would be nice to see it again. 

She would never admit it, but she always wished she had experienced a love like Clark Gable and Carole Lombard. Something that shouldn't have happened. Unstoppable. A love that took over. 

It was hard to believe something like that existed, especially in her line of work.

She was privy to the harsh realities of wealthy men thinking the women they have at home are none the wiser to their schemes. Chloe wanted to tell them that their wives knew. Of course they did. 

She didn’t. It wasn’t good for tips. 


	2. Bloat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A girl’s gotta have her tricks,” she replied coolly, turning to look over the other shoulder, shoving her thumbs through the straps of her skimpy panties, making the straps glide over her skin, show off the curves even more. “Gotta impress big shots like you.”
> 
> “It’s working,” he responded without a thought, simply keeping the dialogue moving. He didn’t care about her tricks. He could appreciate a pretty sight, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t get one whenever he wanted. He could, but those nights were never as fulfilling as nights when he got to have the only release he truly wanted. 
> 
> An orgasm was great. Ending an unworthy life was so much better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, some negative sex-worker commentary going on in this chapter. This does not reflect the thoughts and opinions of the author. They are simply to fit the beliefs and thoughts of the characters. This is a fic about serial killers, just take that as a blanket-warning. These aren’t good people, they don’t think like normal people, and they don’t act like normal people. That’s the lump of salt you need to go into this with.
> 
> Un-beta'd, like _everything_ else I write, so there's mistakes. Sorry about that, folks.  
> I wish proofreading my own work didn't suck my soul dry. 
> 
> For the mood:  
> ["Out of My Cage" by UNSECRET X Alaina Cross](https://youtu.be/o4i45wZQr5g)  
> ["The Reckoning" (feat. Matthew Perryman Jones) by UNSECRET](https://youtu.be/6S07MaAy6oY)
> 
> **Artwork by the amazing [x_Luniana_x](https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_Luniana_x)

* * *

**  
_Chloe_  
**

She was given special access to the penthouse floor from the elevator. The soft chime signaled that she had arrived, and when she stepped out of the elevator, it felt like stepping into an arena, a battlefield. She was the gladiator, prepared to fight whatever beast lay beyond the doors. She didn’t require permission to kill or to save from an emperor, though. She took no orders from any man that she didn’t want to take. 

No one could take her choice away. She decided if they could live to see another day. She decided if they stopped being a waste of oxygen and space. 

She knocked on the door, loud enough to be heard, but soft enough to sound demure. That was the goal, after all: be the wolf in sheeps’ clothing. A nightmare dressed like a doll. 

The door opened smoothly, no hurried franticness of an eager client, no nonchalant indifference of a pushed open door that she had to open for herself. The man on the other side opened the door with the confidence of someone who knew he was getting a fine product, of someone who knew they  _ deserved _ that fine product. She was expecting an aged man of average height, perhaps a little rounder in the middle than he had been years before, dressed in a Kiton Men’s suit, receding hairline, and Jaeger-Lecoultre watch on his wrist. 

Chloe didn’t consider herself an easily surprised woman, but the man that appeared on the other side of the door had completely floored her. He was younger than her usual clientele, maybe 40, if the small lines at the corners of his eyes signified anything. He was tall, exceptionally tall, even in her heels, and wore the  _ hell _ out of a tailored, black, Tom Ford three-piece. He had full, dark hair, that swooped back away from his forehead, dark stubble adorning the lower half of his face, a silver ring with a black stone on his middle finger. 

No wedding band. No tan lines from a removed wedding band that she could see, either. 

She clenched her jaw to keep her lips from parting in a pleasantly surprised manner. A, quite literal, jaw-drop over a man was something she would never be caught alive doing. She could find pleasure, and relief, in that she wasn’t the only one affected by the person on the other side of the door. The man’s brows twitched when his eyes landed on her, his lips did the same, turning up at the sides as the brown in his eyes sparkled with mirth. 

Yeah. She thought she might even have fun with that one before she really got started. 

The man lifted an arm and pressed his hand against the opposite side of the doorframe, and he checked her out, head to toe, licked his lips, and took a sip of amber liquid, held in a tumbler in his other hand. “Come inside, darling,” the man said, and Chloe fought a smile at the sound of an English accent. It had been a while since she had had a foreigner. 

She tilted her chin down and pushed hair behind her ear, a thing many men found endearing in a woman when they were spoken to. She started to take a step and noticed that he hadn’t moved his arm from the door frame. She paused, and looked at him, and was only met with a challenging expression. He took another sip, tilted his head, motioning for her to walk through the door. Under his arm. 

The problem wasn’t that she would need to duck to get through the door, the problem was that he was already showing his place. At the top. The logical side of Chloe understood that all she needed to do was do as expected. Play the part. Walk under his arm, all coy and charmed, let him feel in control. The irrational side, the little beast, wanted to refuse. She’d never get to end the man if she did that. 

He didn’t look like one to put up with a stubborn escort. 

She smiled tightly, and he looked all the more amused when she walked under his arm, purposefully keeping her head held high, bumping the top of her head against his arm. She could hear a deep chuckle rumble in his chest as she brushed passed. 

She could play along. But she wouldn’t stoop  _ that _ low for a John that wouldn’t be breathing by the end of the night. 

She had standards for herself.

“What can I get you to drink?” She heard the door close behind her, the man’s voice smooth as silk when he asked the question. He walked right past her, shoulder touching hers, and went for the bar cart. He looked over his shoulder when she didn’t answer, an eyebrow arched. 

“Vodka soda,” she answered, teeth carefully biting into her lower lip. She watched him as he made her drink with practiced ease, large frame moving meticulously. She noticed he was particular about the ice cubes, ensuring the squares were lined up. He measured a double serving of vodka, and poured the club soda in a way to minimize the release of the gas, keeping the drink crisp and refreshing. 

He walked back over to her, drinks in hand. She could see he topped his up when he handed her the taller, sweating glass. He watched her as she took a sip, eyes dropping to her lips around the rim of the glass. He licked his lips and placed his hand on her lower back, nearly spanning the width, and he walked them towards one of the plush leather couches, the color of whiskey on a bright, sunny day. 

She sat down, but he didn’t follow, not immediately. He set his glass on the coffee table before shrugging out of his suit jacket. She watched rounded shoulders flex out of the jacket, arms pulled behind his back before he folded the jacket in half lengthwise, laying it over the back of the couch. He wore a charcoal grey shirt, almost a light shade of black, and the shirt fit just as well as the jacket. It hugged his chest and shoulders, tight over the swell of his arms, and slimmed along his slender waist. 

It was honestly shocking how attractive the man was. A red flag started to waive in the back of her lizard brain, signaling that he was, in now way, unable to get his own women. She staved it off, only because important businessmen didn’t have the time to put energy into getting a woman to their bed. They wanted easy, and an escort service was just that. Easy. 

They had all the money in the world, but their time was valuable. They had better things to do than swoon a girl for their tight, wet holes. Not when money could get that delivered right to their luxury-suit doors. 

When he did sit, he sat catty-corny to the armrest, so he was able to watch her as he sipped his drink. She crossed her legs, watched as his eyes tracked the movement, and took another sip. She still didn’t have a name, wasn’t sure how to address him.  _ Sir _ seemed the most likely answer, but you never knew. She’d been asked to call men a multitude of things. It was better to ask than to get it wrong. 

“So, what should I call you, handsome?” she asked, sounding playful and light. She didn’t want to admit it, but there was something unnerving about him. He radiated confidence in every aspect of his being, his eyes were dark and secretive, and his smile never quite reached them. There was something artificial in his friendly demeanor, something she was more than familiar with. 

“The agency didn’t give it to you?” he asked, brows knitting together as his mouth formed the shape of amused surprise. “That doesn’t sound very safe.”

“No,they didn’t. It’s to protect  _ your _ privacy,” she answered, narrowing her eyes. “You already know my name, so giving me something to call you by is usually the next step in this little  _ couplage _ .” The French wasn’t necessary, but it added a flair to her statement, and the man seemed pleased with it. 

“No. I know the name that was next to your picture on the  _ menu _ ,” he corrected, pointing a finger in her general direction. “So, come on. Tit for tat. I’ll give you mine if you give me yours.” he smirked, cheshire-cat like, all grin and nothing but emptiness in the eyes. 

“Chloe is my real name,” she stated flatly, tilting her head quizzically. “Why? You think I’d need a fake name to hide behind?”

“Well, not everyone is as open to the prospect of their friends and family knowing what they-” and he paused, seeming to consider his words, swallowing dryly, features close to expressing disgust. “ _ -do _ for a living.” 

“I think you’ll come to find that I’m not like most people.” She stared at him, just shy of glaring, and watched as he looked down, bit his lower lip, made eye contact with her again, and drained his glass. He didn’t even flinch swallowing down, at least, a finger of liquor. 

“I hope so,” he said, almost quietly, observing every square inch of her before giving her an answer. “Mr. Morningstar.” 

The accent was charming, smooth as melted chocolate in her ears, but even in that velvety tone, the surname sounded fabricated. “What happened to ‘tit for tat’?” She was almost done with her drink, and the man stood up, took her glass form her hand, and walked back to the bar cart. He refilled them both, just as carefully as before, not saying anything until her fresh drink was in her hand and he was sitting in the same position he had been in. 

“Very real, I’m afraid,” he responded, smiling wryly, and it was genuine, she could see that. “The first name’s a doozy,” he added, more to himself than to her, chuckling into his glass before taking a sip. That was genuine, too. 

He was silent after that. Silence never troubled her, but the intensity of his gaze was disconcerting. It was like he was seeing through her; not in a way that could be construed as romantic, not in a way where it was like he could see the  _ real _ her, but in a way that appeared psychic, like he knew something of her future. 

She didn’t miss the way the corners of his mouth turned up in the faintest of smiles, either. 

Whatever he saw, he liked it. 

“So, Mr. Morningstar,” she purred, breaking the pregnant silence in the room. It should have been stifling to have two people in close proximity so quiet, but they both seemed comfortable in it, like their own worlds couldn’t be bothered by the lack of sound. Chloe sipped her drink, melting ice cubes clinking against expensive crystal. “What can I do for you tonight?” 

“What? Not a fan of riveting conversation?” he asked, and it wasn’t offense that tainted his tone, but it was something unsavory that she couldn’t pinpoint. “Straight into business with you?” 

She didn’t like how he said it. It wasn’t that it wasn’t the truth. It was. Exchanging herself for money essentially  _ was _ a business transaction. She didn’t like what he implied with those words. With his tone. If he hadn’t been the one to order her services, she would have suspected he was disgusted by sex-workers, and the way he had been eyeing her since he opened the door proved otherwise. He looked like he wanted to tear her apart. With a face and body like that, she’d let him. 

He seemed to realize he said something...off putting. “Apologies,” he started, holding his free hand up, doing his best to seem apologetic, even though she could see he wasn’t. “I’ve had a long week and I’m a little on-edge.”

Chloe plastered on a wide, playful smile, using those baby-blues of hers to their full potential. “I guess that’s why I’m here.” 

“Exactly,” he answered, although she hadn’t asked a question. His eyes darkened, if that was even possible, and she felt like she could burn under those eyes.

“So conversation is your foreplay.” She finished her drink and set the glass down on the coffee table. Her bag was against her thigh on the couch, it felt like a bomb at times. She was the fuse, the man was the spark, and the syringe inside the bag was the detonator. As soon as that plunger bottomed out, the adrenaline exploded, made the rest of the night feel like a vibrating haze of euphoria and justice. 

“No, foreplay is foreplay,” he objected, pulling her from her thoughts. “I just like to get to know who I’m with before I get inside them.” He clenched his jaw tight, like he was holding back, like there was more he wanted to say, but wouldn’t. She could see there was a temper there, a closely guarded, highly controlled temper that simmered under a tightly sealed lid. She liked that she seemed to push the steam vent a little. That she made all that purposefully suppressed rage bubble up. Like  _ he _ was the dangerous one. 

It would have been laughable if there wasn’t a cold chill settling along her spine. 

“You do this with all the other girls?” she asked, trying to lighten the mood. She’d never had to work so hard to stay on the right side of playful for a client. She’d never had one who seemed they had to force themselves to want her company. 

His expression didn’t change, he didn’t falter, had no outward reaction to her question. Not even a hint of a smirk. “I’m not exclusive,” he stated, eyes moving down towards her chest, but he seemed to linger on her throat, on the pulse that thrummed steadily on the side of her neck. “I do this with all the boys, too.” He peered at her curiously when her eyes widened the barest amount. More of a twitch of eyelids than a widening in shock. He chuckled then, because he read her. He read her  _ easily _ , and she had to hide the fury bubbling inside of her. 

She wasn’t surprised often, but the man surprised her for a second time that evening. 

“Oh,” he started, expression shifting to one of mock concern. Any doubt on her ability to kill the man evaporated in the heat of her rage. She would not be made a joke of. By the end of the night, he’d be the one begging while she laughed, drowning out his screams with the liquor he drank so freely. “I hope you don’t feel any less special now.” He looked at her like she was a child that he just gave a replacement ice cream to  _ after _ he knocked the first one out of her hand. The taker and the giver. “I have ways of making everyone feel special.” 

“I’m a luxury escort,” she bit out through a sly smile. “I don’t need anything to make me feel special.” She swallowed hard, laboriously. The  _ especially from a man like you _ was left inside her mind, locked tight behind smart teeth. 

“I can tell you, with utmost certainty, that I can change that.” He smirked at her, calm, cool, and confident. Predatory. She hated him already. Killing him would be one of the best releases. She could already feel it. The utter pleasure she would get from watching his eyes lose their sparkle. 

“You can try,” Chloe offered, a smirk that leaned towards a sneer on her painted lips, her eyes dark, sparkling with amusement. “You bought the opportunity, after all.” Finally,  _ finally _ , is was the man’s turn to look surprised. It wasn’t obvious, but Chloe could see it. Could see the way his brows jumped a hair’s distance up his forehead, how the corners of his eyes tightened just slightly. She uncrossed her legs in the silence, the soft sounds of skin sliding over skin were loud in the quietness. He kept her knees wide, knowing the short hem on her dress allowed for anyone looking at her to see the starkly contrasting red lace she wore underneath. It was sheer, just the hint of a shadow where her sex split into suple lips. It drove her clients crazy. It provided such a great distraction for her cause. 

Chloe watched his face, his eyes lowering to the exposed area between her legs, how he had to wet his lips at the image she produced. His eyes moved up, up until they landed on hers, beautiful brown simmering with lust and something else. Something less complementary and more damnatory. 

“Come here,” he ordered, getting more comfortable in the corner of the couch, lifting his arms to rest on the back of the couch, fabric stretching over well-used muscle. She couldn’t help but notice how open and ready he looked, how completely at ease to let her, a creature in disguise, get close to his soft spots. 

With the mood changed, not negatively, but definitely more heated, Chloe grabbed her bag, never letting it out of her sight or too far away, she slid over on the couch, the satin of her dress making the glide easy over leather. She licked her lips, noticing his attractiveness wasn’t just from afar, and reached out to put a hand on his chest. “Get on,” he spoke up, halting her movements, his hips lifting off the seat of the couch enough to suggest he meant his lap. 

She tilted her head back as she lifted herself up on her knees, only slightly taller than he was that way. “Won’t you tell me your name first, mister?” she pleaded, voice high and innocent; the boldest lie she could tell. Staring right into his eyes, she twisted to plant her hands on his chest as she threw her leg over his thighs. Before she could even sit down, the man was lifting his hips up to meet her, hands moving to her waist and pushing her down into his lap with a growl, moving her where he wanted her. “Mr. Morningstar is such a long thing to cry out. Don’tcha think?” 

“Lucifer,” he sneered, and she knew he was watching her closely for any reaction to such a biblical name. Such a damned one. She could see in the way he shone as he said it, like he was proud of it, like it was ironic. 

She gave him no reaction, since he was looking so hard for one. Instead, she smiled prettily, biting her lip, looking charmed, and pressed herself harder into his lap. “Well, Lucifer, now that you have me, what do you intend to do to me?” She smiled wickedly at him, and he returned the same expression. 

If only he knew it would be the last time that face of his got a warm body in his lap. 

  
\---  
  


**_Lucifer_ **

The escort, Chloe, was gorgeous, stunning. Far better than the picture in the menu could have ever hoped to achieve. What was even better, even more unexpected, was that she was witty. She hadn’t flinched at his name. It wasn’t like he expected people to cower at his feet for it, that wouldn’t be very helpful to his cause (not until  _ after _ he had them trapped), but he thought he might get  _ something _ out of her. 

She had an intelligence that he hadn’t come across. Not that any other escorts he had spent time with had been dumb. The high-end ones, the ones intended for important clients, were never idiots. Chloe was different, though. Chloe had a type of wisdom about her that was unnerving. 

She seemed to observe everything, in the way he did. 

It was a waste, really; the potential of a person like that wasted in a profession like the one she was in. If she wasn’t the trash that pretended to be good for her family, however many children she had, he would try to convince her out of prostitution. But, like his mother, she was bound to disappoint at some time. He’d get rid of that risk before her offspring paid the price. 

With her in his lap, her flesh under his hands, the primal want in his loins was screaming out.  _ Take, take, take _ , it growled inside his head. Flashes of a naked body writhing under his, over his. Teeth sinking into flesh, hands gripping bruises, tongues tasting salty skin, shared breath. 

The desire to  _ fuck _ was strong, stronger than he’d felt in years, hell, maybe his entire sexual life. There were times he got around to fucking the escorts, but more often then not, they’d suck his cock, he might get his tongue on them, and then he’d start the beautifully slow process of killing them for as long as he felt like they deserved. 

Lucifer struggled with multiple versions of himself arguing in his head. There was always a conflict, neither part of himself agreed on anything. For the first time in forever, all of his various voices, all belonging to different desires, screamed out for her. He wanted, all of him wanted, and the way she moved in his lap, slim fingers gripping at his chest, got his cock swelling in his slacks.

It usually took a few tears, a few wide-eye glances belonging to that part of their brain that triggered fight, flight, or flee. 

She ground down over him, the heat between her legs seeping through layers of cloth, warming his cock with damp air. She rolled her hips, his thighs jumped, and a breathy moan escaped him. She was smug about it, of course, he could see that on her parted lips, but he refused to  _ not _ have the upper hand. 

No cock-hustling whore would  _ ever _ be in control of him again. 

He gripped her waist tighter, dragging his hands up until one cupped her breast in his palm, squeezing, the other went to the nape of her neck, fingers sliding through thick hair until he could grip her tresses and tug her down. He bypassed her mouth, going straight for her jaw, lips against the curve, licking down soft skin until his mouth suctioned to her throat, pulse fluttering beneath his tongue. 

She moaned, lewdly, almost falsely loud, hips rolling in his lap as he sucked marks onto her skin. That was a no-no, he knew that, not to mark the goods, but something in him wanted to. He wanted to see his claim on her before bruises wouldn’t form, when there was no pulse to pump blood overwhere he wanted to see it beneath the surface. He tugged her hair, forcing her neck to arch for him, and she gasped, nails digging into his chest through his shirt. A delicious bite of nail. 

“ _ Oh, god,”  _ Chloe sighed, hands moving up to stroke at his neck, the short hairs at the base of his skull. 

Lucifer stopped everything, even breathing, and all that could be heard was the woman breathing hard, chest heaving with it, the  _ shiff _ of fabric as she writhed in his lap. The hand on her breast shot up and wrapped around her throat, and she let out a surprised yelp before he tightened his hand enough to come across as threatening. 

He pushed her head back enough so he could look her in the eyes, enough to see her jaw clenched at his handling of her. He could see the anger there, but she was good at her job. She’d do a lot for the money. That was always great about whores: being able to pay someone to do whatever you wanted. He was too angry to explore that, though. 

It wasn’t discussed beforehand, but it didn’t mean it was acceptable.

“No,” he hissed, shaking her a little in his grasp. Her eyes closed momentarily, her skin growing hot in anger. “Don’t call out to god. He’s not listening.”

The beautiful woman wearing sheer, red lace beneath her purple dress disappeared, so did the lavish styling of the penthouse. He was back in a small, dark corner of a room, younger, deprived, so damn needing of something warm and affectionate. He had been awake for hours, afraid to move and make his existence known to the new man in his mother’s bed. It happened every day, sometimes a handful of times.

A handful of mornings every day. A handful of men to beat him, tease, him. Make the living hell of his life somehow so much worse. 

Their cold, dark apartment in one of the rookeries in London’s East End, home to a whore-mother and her bastard children, all borne from men looking for nothing more than a wet hole to pound into. 

No way for a woman to love such blatant reminders of how she had to live to take the drugs she needed to keep from killing herself.

In that dark, two-room flat, he’d pray in the short reprieves he had when his mother was occupied with another John. He’d pray and pray, the pain of his black eyes, bruised ribs, and empty stomach all numb as he begged to be saved. 

He prayed for years.

Nothing ever happened. 

Not until he quit praying and made his own luck. His own miracles.

He payed for those, too, in his own soul and blood, but it was a hell of a lot better than being with his mother. 

He learned to stop believing in a higher power at too young an age. He learned that no one could save you but yourself. Any hint of a  _ god _ was offensive to all he’d done to get where he was. All he’d gone through.

Lucifer  _ hated _ the make-believe almighty almost as much as he hated his mother.

He shook his head, the darkness dissipating into golden strands haloing a pretty face, looking down at him with contempt and disinterest. “There’s no god with you here,” he stated flatly, swallowing down the bile that always made its way up after flashes like that. He could see she was irritated by his grasp on her throat, so he loosened it. Didn’t want to lose his chance at catharsis for the night. “Just me.”

“Your name really suits you,” she grunted through tightly clenched teeth. Her voice was calm, more calm than any woman’s had the right to be with a man’s hand around their throat. She didn’t seem worried, she seemed comfortable where she was. She seemed confident in her position. He noticed, of course he did, he looked for fear in their eyes, after all, and he saw none. It was a bit disappointing, but he had creative ways for making women cry. He had just scratched the surface of his repertoire. 

Lucifer huffed a short laugh, a chuckle of agreeance, really. “My mother was tragically ironic that way.” He cursed himself internally before he finished his sentence. He  _ never _ brought up his mother in front of the girls. Especially not the ones he took from the world. It never ended well, and left a mess that was harder to dispose of, harder to clean up. Bringing that bitch up always made flashes of her face pop up, her face suddenly on a much younger body, beneath him, eyes popping from the grip on the host’s throat. It was a desperate nostalgia for a comfort he never had. He took it out on those girls, made the killing much harder on them. Sometimes it wasn’t just strangulation, sometimes he’d squeeze them so hard, shake their body with anger, and their necks would just... _ snap _ . 

His rage got the best of him at times. It was something he was trying to work on. It wasn’t conducive to the longevity of his secret hobby, his scrapbook of justice against the crimes of his mother, one fellow disgusting soul at a time. 

He looked back up at the woman in his lap, at the woman that represented his mother, the best he could get to be her, and he just wanted to taste her. She was a mother, at least, that was what the menu stated. Maybe she would feel like those rare moments he could count on one hand that his own mother would ruffle his hair when he managed to steal a few pounds from a John’s wallet so they could eat that night. Maybe there’d be an ounce of warmth in that mouth, not only meant for his cock. 

Lucifer surged forward, not wanting to talk himself out of it. He was wading dangerous waters as it was, his mother’s face clear in his head every time he closed his eyes, so he didn’t. The woman, Chloe, felt stiff initially, like she didn’t kiss lips much either. She opened up soon, though, the soft, plush feel of her lips sliding over his warmed something long gone cold inside him. 

He pulled away with a gasp, body shaking, lips twitching. He was feeling, and he didn’t like it. It never happened that way. He wanted to keep going, he wanted to feel her alive and thriving, and that was more horrifying than anything he had ever done. It helped that the woman looked down at him equally as concerned, but the expression quickly faded. He understood the merits of ensuring a job well-done, so he couldn’t blame her for keeping her end of the transaction. 

“How about we get you more comfortable,” he suggested, ignoring the hiccup in his actions and reaching up on the side of Chloe’s dress and pulling at the zipper. She moved her arm out of the way, giving him one of her teasing smiles as the metallic ticks echoed in the quiet air between them. She moved herself off of his lap, standing between his legs, and shimmied her way out of the dress. She was gorgeous, a body any man would want to have his hands on, a body any woman would die for. The barely-there stretch marks on her hips, the only sign of their existence was the slightly shiny skin next to smooth, matte flesh. 

Seeing those always sobered him up, reminded him of what he was doing and why. There was a child out there, somewhere, without their mother because she was out selling her holes for money. Even if the child, or children, were out there, well taken care of, they didn’t deserve a mother like that. A mother that would choose dick over her flesh and blood. 

It didn’t matter how attractive she was. She was putting on a show for him, having turned around so he could get a view of her curves, her ass. It didn’t matter. Sooner or later, she’d end up ruining her child's life. He was doing the helpless soul a favor. They would be better off without her. 

“Like what you see?” her voice called out, interrupting his thoughts once again. She had turned her face to look over her shoulder.  _ Fuck _ , she really was stunning. 

“You sure do know what you’re doing,” he muttered, leaning back and admiring the handiwork of whatever couple produced the body in front of him. He spread his legs a little more, gave her more room, rested his arms along the back of the couch again. 

“A girl’s gotta have her tricks,” she replied coolly, turning to look over the other shoulder, shoving her thumbs through the straps of her skimpy panties, making the straps glide over her skin, show off the curves even more. “Gotta impress big shots like you.”

“It’s working,” he responded without a thought, simply keeping the dialogue moving. He didn’t care about her tricks. He could appreciate a pretty sight, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t get one whenever he wanted. He could, but those nights were never as fulfilling as nights when he got to have the only release he truly wanted. 

An orgasm was great. Ending an unworthy life was so much better. 

He hadn’t realized his eyes had slipped closed as he remembered the ultimate release he was seeking until they fluttered open as she slid back into his lap. He grabbed her ass, because he could, squeezed the firm, more-than-a-handful flesh until she gasped. Her hands were on her breasts, squeezing the mounds together, giving a place to bury his nose and mouth. He did so, inhaling her scent, his cock throbbing at the smell. 

He knew she’d smell even better dead, once the chill of stagnant blood settled in, once the stench of wrong priorities was gone. 

He licked his way between her breasts, mouthing at the supple skin and fat, tugging at the band connecting the two cups straining to hold her in. One of her hands was buried in his hair, the other was teasing beneath the collar of his shirt, squeezing at the join between his neck and shoulder. 

She made a move towards the buttons on his waistcoat and he grabbed her wrists, yanking them behind her back and pinning them above her ass. She moaned, biting her lip, rolling her hips against his erection with purpose. She was good, was  _ really _ good, pressing all the buttons, both sexual and predatory, and the drive to both fuck and kill her were battling in his primal mind. 

He knew then he wanted to be inside her as he did it. To feel the tight clench of muscle loosen as her life drained away beneath his hands. The only experience in life he could deem as glorious. 

He looked up at her as he bit at her nipples through the bra, the hard nubs easy to reach through the lightly lined lace. The red looked good on her honeyed complexion, vibrant and warm, almost as good as the regal purple had. The red was better. He imagined it covering her skin, a liquid drape, a bath of viscous crimson. 

Her mouth clenched on a particularly hard bite, hissing through her teeth, but her eyes twinkled with darkened delight. He repeated the gesture until she groaned, loud and involuntary, and he chuckled into her skin, stubble rubbing tan skin pink. 

“You’re evil,” she teased, pretending to struggle in his grasp. He let go of her wrists out of curiosity for what she would do, but she didn’t reach for his clothes again. He watched her long fingers dance through the air, a tease of misdirection, and then they tangled themselves in his hair, fisting tight. His surprised gasp turned into a moan when she yanked his head back, mouth attaching to his throat. 

“Maybe I really am the Devil,” he admitted breathlessly, surprised to find himself turning his head for her, exposing more of his throat to her wicked mouth. She licked along his pulse, seemed to find pleasure in the strong beat of blood through throbbing artery, and pulled away with a knowing grin.

“Oh, pretty boy,” she chided, eyeing every bit of him she could see above where her own body covered his. “You don’t have her smile.”

Lucifer scoffed, trying to keep his blood pressure down. He’d spent a lifetime being called “pretty boy” by grown men at too young an age for it to be appropriate. Called it by women when it was almost alright. He knew what he looked like, but he liked to prove just how wrong “pretty” and “boy” could be. “How do you know you’re not in the lap of the Prince of Darkness himself?”

She laughed, slight and gentle, but it was still a laugh, and his skin grew hot with anger. What could she find so funny about that? He took pride in his ability to stand out and hide who he really was, but he didn’t consider himself one to exude weakness or naiveté. When her eyes fell to his heated glare, she slowed the chuckle, hands leaving his hair to rub down his chest, grabbing a palmful of muscle. 

“How about I show my devotion to eternal damnation?” she purred, voice deep and thick with seduction. He wanted to be mad at the obvious mockery, but he couldn’t, not when he was so close to getting something he wanted. Something he  _ needed _ so badly. She arched a brow at his lack of response, smiling as she lowered a hand and reached for the purse she walked in with next to him on the cushion.

“That your little bag of evil tricks?” he asked, shifting his hips beneath her, staring directly at her mouth as she smiled, closed-lipped, a curve of pinky-brown. 

“Something like that,” she offered, smirking as she fumbled around in the tiny bag. She pulled out a string of condoms, and from what he could see, there were a few different types she had stashed away. The ones she pulled out were golden, thick black block-letters on the front. He smiled at that. 

Every man liked hearing, being shown in that instance, he had a big cock. 

It was his turn to arch a brow, and she shrugged and she moved closer to his face, her lips hovering over his, bag still dangling in her other hand. “Yeah,” she whispered, nose nudging his. “I guess the Dark Lord has a huge cock.” She closed the gap between them, tongue diving into his mouth, curling behind teeth. 

He didn’t miss the reference, so close to what they had been playing with, but just a little off. He pulled away from her chasing mouth, hands coming down to grasp her ass again, kneading the flesh and muscle there. “So now I reign over a Sith army, not a legion of demons?” He knew he was getting lost to the original goal of the night, but he couldn’t help it. It was easy to play games with her, she participated so well. 

It had been a while since he’d been able to play games without them going over the heads of his company. 

“I already told you, I know the Devil, and it ain’t you.”

“You sure?” he asked as her mouth did distracting things across his jaw, up to his ear. He allowed himself to melt into it. He never let himself enjoy the teasing, the bit of carnal intensity before the main event. Chloe made him want it, though, so he closed his eyes, allowed himself a moment of non-violent pleasure. 

It was a mistake, he’d soon find out.

“I’m sure,” she started, voice harder and less alluring than it had been. “Because I know  _ exactly _ what you are.” The abrupt change in her tone brought him out of the trance of a beautiful woman in his lap, just long enough for him to feel her arms shift around him.

“I highly doubt that, darli-” he started to correct, but was cut-off by pressure, followed by a sting,on the side of his neck. He grunted, the sensation odd and nothing like the nip of teeth he had expected. She pulled away from him enough to look down at him, righteously smug. 

His eyes widened in unknown horror as he slammed his hand against the ache on his neck, feeling a small bead of warm wetness beneath his fingers. He could feel himself grow sluggish, weary, tired, as she slid from his lap, walking gracefully around the coffee table in her underthings and heels, looking all the tempting succubus she was. The small needle in her hand, re-capped and drained of milky fluid, was the last clue he needed to know what had happened. 

He heard a sharp bark of laughter before he realized it had come from his own throat as he pulled his hand away. The confirmation of smeared red on his middle fingertip. “Oh, you fucking bitch,” he slurred, feeling himself start to chuckle again, bringing on a fit of coughing as his chest found it tiring to suck in air. His eyes were wide with incredulity and amusement. He just couldn’t fucking believe it.

He struggles to get himself off of the couch, his first instinct to run for her and strangle her dead, but he stumbled too much and fell to the ground before he could get fully around the coffee table. Chloe just backed up, confidently waiting for him to lose consciousness, he was sure of it. He’d never been in the position he had found himself in, and he wondered if he was going to wake in a bathtub full of ice, long scar along the side of his back where she removed his kidney, or if he would wake up with all of his belongings gone. 

As his peripheral vision blurred, he started to crawl towards his suitcase. He had packed a few nifty things in there, in case he was feeling more gadgety than handsy. With a final crawl on his knees, he knew he wasn’t going to make it. Every limb felt numb, and he was just able to roll onto his back after he collapsed to the ground. 

Every blink felt like eternity, and from one eternity to the next, Chloe was suddenly hovering over him. He could hear his blood roaring in his ears as she squatted down on those high heels with the ease only femme fatale could summon. She smiled with delicious satisfaction, like a cat who’d caught the canary. The early bird getting the worm.

Lucifer hated his part in both scenarios, especially when he was usually the feline, the feathered game. 

A hand caressed his cheek with deceptive gentleness and a thumb stroked along his bottom lip. He was losing the battle of wakefulness, he was sure of that, and the worst thing to feel was losing to your own game. 

“I told you,” she said, her voice sounding farther away than it should have with her hand still on his face. “You don’t have her smile.” 

Her angeling face and threatening words were the last things he saw and heard before the dark veil of unconsciousness settled in his muscles. Into his bones. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A play has been made... Who will come out on top?
> 
> I'm surprised by the amount of interest for this fic. I wasn't sure it would gain traction, but I'm so glad you guys are along for the ride.  
> Please bear with me in the coming month. I'll have company for my kid's birthday, so posting of any kind might be sparse for a bit!
> 
> But I'm still here!
> 
> Come scream at me down below... please  
> :)


	3. Active Decay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wouldn’t panic. She could handle this. It wasn’t her first rodeo, she’d done this over a dozen times; she was prolific if she wanted to brag about it. She could handle it. Could handle _him_. So what, he was huge? So what if he felt like an MMA fighter under those clothes? So what he was devastatingly good-looking? Another soft sigh, a twitch of his brow, and she knew she needed to act quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a link to the drug Chloe uses to quickly sedate her targets. Just to give you an idea of how it works:
> 
> [Propofol](https://g.co/kgs/H28CFh)
> 
> **Unbeta'd, as always.**
> 
> Okay, it's been a while. I've had company here for the past few weeks and that gave me no alone-time to do any writing. Luckily, I had this chapter half written, so it was really just finishing this up. I got a one-shot I've had thought up throughout my entire forced sabbatical, so watch out for that, too ;)  
> Glad to be back, my darklings
> 
> ***** Please, click the song links in the story, at the very least the first one. It's _perfect_ for the tone I was going for!!! **

* * *

**_Chloe_ **

Her knees popped as she stood back up. She didn’t have much time, and she needed to figure out the closest place she could tie him to. The most stable place where she didn’t have to try to lift his unconscious body off the ground. She prided herself on being strong, but he was tall, long, lean with muscle. He was far heavier than she could even try to lift up. 

Her closest bet was the 8-seat table, but she wasn’t very confident. Sure, it looked sturdy enough, she just wasn’t sure he wouldn’t be able to drag the table along the ground. 

Unfortunately, it would have to do. She was running out of time. Propofol was a great anesthetic for quick sedation, but it was just that: quick. She always filled her doses for the average size male, so as to not over-sedate smaller men and under-sedate the larger ones.  _ Lucifer Morningstar _ was closer to risking under-sedation. He went down relatively quickly, but he could wake up within the next five minutes. She was sure of it. 

Calm and collected, she moved to stash the needle back in her bag, kicking off her heels in the process. She looked around the room for anything that could help her. The problem with being an escort was that she hardly had the opportunity to bring her own ways for binding. Some guys already had them, stashing silk scarves or 550 cord in their luggage, intended to be used on her. 

Lucifer hadn’t unpacked yet, and she didn’t have time to go through his suitcase. Taking no more than a second to think, she took long strides back over to where he lay on the ground. She readied herself, stretching her neck as she bent down and grabbed his wrists. She stood behind his head and started to pull, groaning in relief with the momentum finally took and his lifeless form started to slide over the ground as she pulled with all her might. 

She was breathing hard, a mixture of both exertion and adrenaline, by the time she had dragged him the few feet over to the table. She dropped his wrists close to one of the metal legs and dropped to her knees. She couldn’t help but drag her hands down the front of his torso as she reached for his belt. Her fingertips sunk in the perfect amount, soft skin over hard muscle, or, it would have been hard if he had been awake. He was firm where it was expected, and she was always one to appreciate hard work, both functional strength and aesthetic. 

Yanking his belt, she looped the stiff leather around his wrists, one at a time, and then looped it around the leg of the table. She fastened it, ensuring that the buckle wasn’t within the reach of his long, surely dexterous fingers. She did a test tug, and wasn’t very happy with the structural integrity of her set-up. It would definitely keep him occupied while his body fought-off the effects of the Propofol, but once he regained full capacity, he’d eventually get free. 

With his arms secured for the time being, she focused on his legs. Within sight, she couldn’t see anything to be used to tie those fucking tree trunks up. With one hand planted firmly in the center of his chest, she looked around again, needing something fast. The penthouse suite was larger than most apartments in L.A., three whole stories, over 3,000 square feet of luxury, and not a single  _ damn  _ form of restraint. 

A stroke of genius hit her and she eagerly turned her gaze towards his feet, and found herself immediately annoyed by his good taste. Of course, he would be wearing fine Italian leather loafers, no laces. She cursed herself under her breath for no other reason than the ridiculous one for not wanting to wake the drugged-up giant on the floor. 

She was better than that. She  _ never _ dosed them too soon, always did it when she had them where she wanted them, when she wouldn’t have to waste the 5-10 minutes she had  _ looking _ for a means of restraint and not using that time to  _ actually _ restrain them properly. 

She should have bounced at the first hint of something off. She never liked to admit defeat, but there was something about that man that put her on edge, and it was her own damn competitive nature that made her want to push it, that made her reluctant to let go of such a challenging foe.

He pressed all of her buttons: he was gorgeous, for one, and his wit was incredible. Talking to him was actually exciting, and she hardly expected any answer, verbal or nonverbal, she got. He was enigmatic in a world where she surrounded herself with the predictable on purpose. He was dangerous game, she knew that, but that was the appeal, that was what drew her into it, allowing herself to be thrown a few times when she would have never entertained the notion. 

His gaze, his attention, his voice, made her feel  _ alive _ in ways that no man had ever done, and he had hardly touched her. To say she wasn’t intrigued to find out what more could feel like would be a lie that she couldn’t pass as truth. 

A strangled sigh pulled her from her thoughts, her hand rising on his chest as he took a deeper breath than he had been. He was waking up.

She wouldn’t panic. She could handle this. It wasn’t her first rodeo, she’d done this over a dozen times; she was prolific if she wanted to brag about it. She could handle it. Could handle  _ him _ . So what, he was huge? So what if he felt like an MMA fighter under those clothes? So what he was devastatingly good-looking? Another soft sigh, a twitch of his brow, and she knew she needed to act quickly. 

She ran towards the nearest bathroom, looking behind the door to find one of the included bathrobes. She pulled the belt off the robe, a long, soft line of material, and ran back to her awaiting victim. His fingers were beginning to flex, the skin around his wrists pink from the tight cinch of the belt. Chloe worked the robe’s belt around Lucifer’s ankles, cuffing each before looping excess material around the center, ensuring there was a space so he couldn’t rub his feet together and slip out of the tie. 

Just as his eyes were starting to flutter open, she felt as confident about his binding as she could with the poor timing she’d had. She moved to straddle him, sitting over his hips, putting all of her weight on him, making him feel even heavier than she knew he had to be feeling. He cleared his throat a few times, seemingly unaware of his current predicament, unaware of the woman on his lap, as well. 

Chloe watched with rapt attention as he came back to himself, slowly and groggily, like fading through a thick fog. She saw the moment he recognized her, the moment he remembered what had happened, and the moment that adorably confused expression morphed into dangerous rage. He opened his mouth, and before he could get anything out, she balled her fist and punched him directly in the mouth. 

He had the audacity to look offended, tonguing at his lip with his brows bunched together, eyes full of incredulous confusion. She punched him again, that time splitting his lip, and his head fell back down on the ground from where he had raised it a few inches. He cursed her, and she shook out her hand.

No one ever talked about how much it hurt to punch people in the mouth. How sharp teeth felt against the thin skin over knuckles. 

Beneath her, he began to struggle, trying to wriggle around, move his own sluggish weight and her additional poundage. He strained his neck to look above his head to wear his hands were bound to the table leg, exposing his throat, and she tried not to follow the lines of tendons and veins as he sighed. 

“Don’t fucking talk, don’t fucking move,” she warned, raising her fist to get his attention. He turned his eyes back to her face, looking more annoyed than anyone should in that situation. He wasn’t afraid, and that bothered her. Why wasn’t he afraid? He was acting like his state was more of an inconvenience than a death sentence. “And I’ll do my best to make this as hard for you as possible.” She smiled wickedly, and he was wholly unimpressed, if his flat expression said anything. 

“I don’t need any help in that department, darling, but thank you,” he responded flippantly. “Now,” he started again, casual and calm, but she was sure she could hear the tremors of concern in his voice. “I’m all for role-play, but I don’t usually go this method with it.”

Chloe looked down at him, shocked and pissed, and was about to hit him again, just for the hell of it, when he pulled on his arms and the table moved a few centimeters. The air between them went silent. He stared at her and she stared down at him, four eyes wide, mouths open in surprise.

She hadn’t expected that, and neither had he. 

In a sudden show of strength, he bucked his hips, trying to toss her in the air as he twisted so she couldn’t land back on top of him. The movement made the leather belt bite into his wrists, and he hissed as the binding cut-off the circulation to his hands. He tried to kick his legs, but with his ankles tied together, he merely flopped like a fish, and Chloe took the opportunity to flip him over the rest of the way and settle herself firmly over the middle of his back. He tried to get his knees under himself, but she grabbed his hair in both hands and banged his head into the metal edge of the table leg, once, twice, a third time. 

She yanked his head backwards, the arch of his spine under her hips assuredly painful, the pull on his shoulders taught from where his wrists were bound, She wrapped one hand around the front of his throat, feeling muscles and ligaments work beneath her palm as he grunted, face twisted in a grimace. 

“ _ Fuck you!” _ he spit through clenched teeth, eyes turning to the side to try and see her. She shoved his head forward into the metal again, the metallic  _ dong _ ringing through the air, a smear of red on gold. 

“My, you’re feisty,” she mocked through a harsh breath, chuckling as he struggled to breathe through the arch in his throat, blood staining his lips and teeth. 

“Well, it’s been a while since I’ve had a woman top me,” he coughed, split lip turning in a smile, letting a drop of blood slide down his chin. “I’ve been told I can be a bit of a bratty bottom.” 

Chloe choked on a surprise bark of laughter. The man was  _ insane _ , laughing and joking in the face of impending danger. “What the  _ hell _ is wrong with you?”

“My therapist would say a lot, but she might just be talking about my cock.” 

“You’re so much worse than I thought.” Chloe looked down at him with disgust, using the hand in his hair to turn his head to a painful angle. He groaned, lips moving up in a snarl when he finally was able to look at her from the advantageous position she sat at. “You think women - oh that’s right, forgive me, and men - are just here for your pleasure? Like they couldn’t have anything better to do than take your fucking pretentious dick.” 

Lucifer gasped, condescending and fake, and she just  _ knew _ that if he had had an arm free, he would have had a hand to his chest to make it dramatic. “Who hurt you?” he asked and then laughed. For a man in such a precarious position, he was surprisingly humours, and it made her wonder if she should just leave, cut her losses before the night got even more ridiculous. “As a rebuttal, there isn’t much that they could do better than, well, me.” Chloe tugged on his hair even harder, imagining ripping through his scalp, pulling all that pretty hair off. 

She bent down, lowering her face until her lips were close to his. “You disgust me,” she whisper-spat, hating the way her eyes trailed down to his lips, stained red and plush. 

“Right back at you, whore.” That genuine coldness was back in his eyes. Anger and hatred, clearly meant for someone more than just an acquaintance, resonated in his features. It was a hint, a clue, to who the man was, but Chloe never took insults well. 

They tended to make her impulsive. 

She slammed his head against the table leg against, harder, using the rage to hold his face against the metal while she reached behind herself and grasped his balls through his slacks, and  _ squeezed _ . He yelped, mouth muffled when she slammed his face down into the floor, a fresh cut above his brow bleeding nicely. His lips curled up in a snarl, blood flowing down through his eyebrow, clumping his long lashes, gliding over the curve of his cheek and collecting in the bow of his upper lip. 

“Careful who you call a whore.” It was a warning, but her lips twitched in a smile. Somehow, he was still beautiful, all broken and bleeding beneath her. She bent down over him, lips hovering over his ear. She didn’t trust herself to be anywhere else; her tongue was aching to lick the blood out of his eye. “You’re the only one wet and laid-out here.” 

“You sure about that?” he grunted, growling low in his throat when she squeezed his balls again. It wasn’t a move she had intended to make, but if there was one thing about men she knew, they seemed to behave when their  _ manhood _ was on the line. 

Like rodeo bulls, only mildly complacent with a rope tied from their balls to their nose. 

Hm… that was a thought. An image. 

“You seem to be getting off on this shit, sure that cunt isn’t nice and wet?” He chuckled, wetly, blood beginning to collect in his mouth from both lip and brow. “I bet it is,” he mocked in sing-song, laughing some more. “Not gonna lie, I’m probably enjoying myself a little more than I should.” 

Chloe opened her mouth to rebuke, anger coloring her vision, but then her eyes were stinging, the red no longer a figment of her imagination as she felt more than heard him spit blood onto her face. It was alarming, the taste and salty burn of it in her eyes, on her tongue, and then she was being bucked-off, falling to the side. 

Luicer had managed to get his knees under himself, tucked-up and protected as his mouth worked at the belt on his wrists, expertly undoing the clasp with his teeth. Chloe kicked him in the hip, but it did little to deter him as he ripped his hands free of the binding, glaring at her dangerously as he moved to his ankles. 

She wasn’t sure a fight with him head-on was something she wanted to explore, so she got up and ran out of his sight, ducking behind the wet bar to grab the ostentatious ice pick gleaming on the counter. There were three floors, including the roof-top deck, and so much space to hide, but a lavish penthouse was still a finite place. 

She’d be found, eventually. And she needed to be ready when it happened. Ready to go for the kill and not play with her food, so to speak. 

She was a monster, not an animal. 

**_Lucifer_ **

The tie around his ankles was not without skill. No doubt in his mind that she had tied people up before, whether professionally or on her personal time. He tossed the luxurious terry material to the side, standing up, shoulders hunched in the way a new transformed werewolf would be. He looked around, already knowing that Chloe was well out of sight. He couldn’t blame her; if he’d drugged and beat someone twice his size, he’d duck for cover, too. 

He’d also look for a weapon. 

Look for a place to lurk in the shadows.

Wait for the best time to strike.

He imagined Chloe was probably doing the same. After all, she had sedated him and, unsuccessfully, bound him. She was clearly planning on doing  _ something _ to him, and he was sure it didn’t have anything to do with his dick. Sadly, the same could not be said about his balls, and they ached, nostalgic, from the tight grip they had been held in. 

Lucifer prided himself in being able to keep a cool-head when a situation wasn’t going as planned. He was confident in his ability to regain control, he had no doubt in that, but he was taken off-guard, and it was a new sensation. The woman was... good. It hurt him deep into the black hole where his heart had been scorched to ashen dust. Arrogantly, perhaps, he knew he was better. 

Stretching his neck, Lucifer walked calmly over to the other side of the living room area. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and connected it to the bluetooth surround-sound that went throughout the entire penthouse. He had a love for music, almost all of it, and it was part of the reason for dedicating his life to both cleaning-up the world’s whore-mother problem and owning nightclubs. So that meant that he had playlists for certain occasions. 

A soundtrack for his activities. 

EDM for the evening, he thought. Electronic Death Music. 

Before starting the playlist, Lucifer wiped the blood out of his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve, already deciding the garment was a goner. He saw the blood smeared on his shirt, evidence of everything that had transpired, and he couldn’t stop the bubbling laughter flowing out of his chest. 

“I have to admit, darling,” he started, once he had caught his breath and wiped the wetness from the corners of his eyes. “I respect your methods, and it’s not your fault you chose someone like me, but you  _ must _ know I can't let it slide." He let that marinate, knowing she had heard him, his voice loud enough to carry throughout the penthouse. "I had  _ plans _ for you, and you've gone and fucked that up!"

He tried to sound mad about it, put-out, even, but the disappointment wasn't there. In truth, the night was turning into the most fun he'd had in god knows how long. 

A true hunt. A primal search, giving the bestial instincts in him a challenge. Stroking it's claws along his skull, his chest, so desperate to come out and play. He groaned, the rush of adrenaline at the idea of hunting the woman down and tearing her throat out with his teeth exciting his entire being. Making his cock harder than granite, his mind buzzing with boundless energy. 

**[[Rosenfeld - Like U]](https://youtu.be/iyh6_hSxMvo) **

"I'm going to have so much fun with you, Chloe," he warned, pressing play on his phone and letting the boosted bass of the surround sound fill the void of silence. He tossed the phone into the couch, hips moving to the beat of the song as he unbuttoned his waistcoat and slung it over the back of the couch. 

His sleeves were next. He rolled them up his forearms, allowing the material to stretch over his arms and shoulders easier, giving better range of motion. He stretched his shoulders and hands, preparing the muscles to render a body lifeless, play god and take away an underserved use of oxygen. 

It was personal now. Not that it wasn't before, because women neglecting their children for money and cock was  _ very _ personal. Chloe made it more personal by attempting to do… _ something.  _ That was still unclear, and one option popped into his head, but the chances of that were slim to none. 

The odds of it… unthinkable, yet something in him perked up at the thought. The  _ what if _ . 

Before leaving the living room, he turned off the lights, cloaking him in shadowed darkness, the yellow glow of the remaining light illuminating his path. The unspilled blood-trail he hoped to follow, footsteps in time with her beating heart. 

He allowed himself to move efficiently, but inconspicuously. He was one with the darkness he was slowly creating, turning off lights with each area he was clearing. 

No sign of Chloe.

He saw her dress and heels by the couch, but in the subsequent areas he has looked in, gone through, nothing stood out. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, not that he would really know… it wasn't like he was in his own territory. 

They were on common ground in the lavish penthouse. 

The music flowed, a volume loud enough to drown-out any screams, any sounds of horrors occurring within the overpriced walls. He found himself bouncing to the best, gliding through the open-floor plan, up the flight of stairs to the second floor. 

He loved music. Loved how there was a sound for every emotion, every situation, anything that anyone could think of. He was a fan of almost everything, but his occupation instilled a deep following of anything that a body could move to, be that dancing, running, fucking, or killing. 

The classics, the piano ballads, he reserved for his time alone, where he could allow unshed tears to burn his eyes in privacy, for all the feelings of inadequacy and pain to flow from his fingers into the black and ivory keys of a Steinway. 

He continued his search of the lower level, swaying to the beat, turning off lights if they were on, slowly encapsulating them in darkness. Lit only by the lights of Los Angeles outside. By the time he hit the stairs to the next floor, the song had changed, to something edgier, still with a beat he and a partner could grind to.

**[[3TEETH - Pumped Up Kicks]](https://youtu.be/5txYYSo0jWs)**

He just needed to find that partner. 

“Oh, it’s grunge night at Club Homicide, Chloe!” he sang-out, feet barely making a noise as he climbed the stairs. He couldn’t imagine that she had snuck her way up there, but a lot had happened in the past hour he hadn’t imagined, as well. 

A barely-there flash of movement near a door frame caught his attention, and his heart leapt in his chest. His cock throbbed with it, and that was when he noticed how fucking hard he was in his trousers. He was thrilled, beyond excited, and it seemed his body was just as elated to be hunting a more equal prey as his primal mind was. He contained the snarl rumbling in his chest as best he could and quietly made his way towards the direction of the movement. 

He turned off lights, closed doors, making as little noise as possible, leaving as few escapes and places to hide as possible. It was eerily quiet, moreso than solitude provided. It was the type of quiet that horror movies were about: the unnatural quiet, when everyone in the area was doing their best to remain silent. The kind of quiet two predators can create when looking for their next kill. 

**[[Spiderbait - Black Betty]](https://youtu.be/Qk449uj2jgU)**

His footsteps were soft, slow, and he had his back brushing the wall as he moved to round the corner to another room. There was another flash of movement, a lightning strike, and there was a deep ache in his shoulder. He looked down to see an ice pick sticking out of the meat of his shoulder, the curve of his deltoid, buried in muscle and flesh, missing anything incapacitating. 

The moment of silence following the stab was held between shared exciting breath. Lucifer looked down at the tool sticking out of his shoulder, then looked up to see Chloe staring at her mistake, her miss-step in direction. Without more hesitation, he grasped her neck in his hand, slamming her against the wall and shoving his knee into the soft flesh of her inner thigh. She grunted at the painful pressure, one hand digging its nails into the fingers around her throat, the other wiggling the ice pick stuck in his flesh. 

He shouted in pain, squeezing even harder but losing the pressure he had on her thigh. Chloe did her best to knee him in the balls, but he pressed his hips against hers, blocking the attack. He could feel her throat working for air beneath his palm, and he stared into her wide eyes, searching for fear, but all he found was determination. 

She stopped trying to pry his hand away and placed the newly free hand against his face, hindering his vision as she pulled the ice pick out and went to stab him again, that time in the chest. He had to release her to jump away from the pick and she took that opportunity to punch him in his battered nose. Fresh blood began to flow from his nostrils, but he managed to back-hand her in the mouth. 

Labored breathing could barely be heard over the music Lucifer had blaring, but when he shook the sting out of his nose, he could see the center of her lower lip was bleeding from where it split against her teeth. 

He allowed himself a moment to appreciate the raw beauty of a woman, outraged and focused, blood on her mouth and knuckles, wearing nothing but sheer red lace over her tits and pussy. His cock throbbed mercilessly, and he wasn’t sure if it was his typical sadism or new-found masochism that made carnal arousal so significant in his forebrain. 

“You like hitting women?” she asked bitterly, wiping at her mouth, only spreading the red across her lips and chin. 

“Only when they don’t ask me to,” he responded coyly with a smirk, tasting the blood from his nose, coating his tongue in the reminder of their equal playing field. His eyes flicked down to the ice pick in her hand, the tip had a drop of his blood on it, and he had the strong desire to add hers to the shiny steel. 

She huffed a laugh, whether it was more disgust that amusement he wasn’t sure, but then she crouched down, a preparatory stance. “Well, come and get me, big guy.” 

He knew what she was doing. She was baiting him closer, where she could strike, and he knew sher ground-work was strong. She had experiencing overpowering men larger than her, and he knew not to underestimate her lean frame. 

She noticed his hesitation, like she could read his mind, so she darted away, sprinting towards the stairs that led to the roof-top access the penthouse offered. He didn’t want that. He couldn’t get what he wanted up there. Not when the potential for on-lookers was a real possibility. He ran after her, longer strides catching up, and managed to grab her ankle when she was in the middle of the short set of stairs. 

He yanked her down, making her fall against the sharp edges of the steps. He hears the faint thud of the ice pick as he fell from her hand, so he pulls her harshly down until she was on solid ground with him. She turns to her side, using her feet to push against his legs to create distance between them. He recognized the move; she had taken some form of martial arts before. He bent down and grabbed a fistful of her hair, making her yelp, so he slapped her with the palm side of his other hand. Chloe started to send sharp elbows into his shins and knees, making them buckle, and he hits her with the backside of his hand, in the same spot as the first, deepening the cut on that plush lower lip.

“Don’t make me keep doing that,” he warned with a growl, forcing her neck back in an arch from the grip in her hair. “I want to leave a pretty corpse, darling.” She snarled in response, lips pulled back from clenched, blood-stained teeth. He wanted to lick the blood off them, spit it back on her face. Make her as filthy as he knew her kind to be. 

“Fuck you!” she spat, wincing as he tugged on her hair, burning her scalp with it. 

He chuckled darkly, kneeling down to cage her between his thighs. He felt her hips rise from the ground, trying to topple him over, but he sat down on her, using his weight to hold her down. “Look who’s got the fight in them now.” He grabbed her jaw in one hand, the other leaving her hair to join it’s opposite, when he realized a major error in his ways. 

He hadn’t trapped her arms.

She stole the opportunity of only one of his hands on her and she used hands to grab the collar of his shirt and yank him down, popping a few of the tightly strained buttons in the process. He felt her teeth clamp down around the shell of his ear and screamed when she bit, cartilage crunching, skin tearing, the sound of blood rushing through his ears, the warmth of it leaking from one. Along with the bit, she started laying blows against his sides, aiming for a kidney, probably his liver, and the pain sapped the strength from his frame enough for her to slide out from under him. 

Lucifer inhaled with a wheeze, the air leaving his lungs faster than he could get it in, and felt her body at his back before he could get enough oxygen to his brain. Her legs wrapped around so her ankles could cross over his stomach, and she wrapped one arm around his neck, her other hand bracing against the wrist to apply the chokehold properly. He felt the room sway, the tell-tale sign of a good blood-choke, and rose to his feet in desperation. She clung to him, like a homicidal primate. 

He struggled on his feet, his brain screaming for blood, and he slammed his back against the wall, hers taking the brunt of the force, but she didn’t let go. She wouldn’t. She knew she would have him if she could keep the choke tight. He refused to go down like that, with a nearly naked whore on his back, so he walked them down the hall, hands reaching for the walls for support. He could feel the muscles in her arms shaking with the effort, so he reached his hands up to start pulling on her arm. 

Superior strength aided him and he managed to get her arm loose enough to tuck his chin and latch his teeth to her forearm. She screamed as he broke skin, keeping his teeth tight in her flesh, managing to get them through the door to one of the bedrooms. He started working on her legs, because he knew if he could get those off his torso, he could turn the situation around. 

With his teeth still sunk into her forearm, he reached down and started to twist one of her ankles by the foot. He could feel her legs loosen around his waist, her muscles giving out, so he rushed them towards the bed. He slammed them down, managing to turn himself around in her guard before she could keep him on his back. 

He was cradled between her legs, and he pushed his knees up to pin each wrist down beneath them. He pressed one hand against the side of her face while he adjusted his position, ensuring her arms were secured. One of his fingers slid into her open mouth and she bit down with all her might, but he didn’t care. He was so close, his free hand wrapping around her throat before he pulled his hand away from her face, her mouth, joining the other on her neck. 

He squeezed, breathing hard, trying to control himself before he snapped her neck, before she was dead too soon to feel his wrath, to see what she really was. Adrenaline rushed through him, numbing his injuries to nothing but electrified sparks on his body. He could feel his own pulse thundering against his grip on her throat. He looked down at her, face swelling, turning red, eyes wide and almost bulging. Her fighting shifted their hips together, and his achingly hard cock twitched at the movement, tip leaking. 

For the first time, he knew he could cum like that, taking her life as she rutted beneath him. He groaned. The pleasure almost too much. It was too early to be getting off. It didn’t happen that way

So he didn’t choose. Didn’t ignore it. Decided to ride both urges into battle with the other predator in the room. . They weren’t supposed to participate. They just had to lay there, still and deceased, as he jerked himself off in his underwear. 

He wasn’t sure what took over him, what part of his bestial mind that took control of his movements, but he found himself bending down and pressing his bloody mouth to her equally bloody one. Her teeth sank into his lip, and that was when he released the fatal grip on her throat, feeling the air rush between them as she sucked in a much needed breath. 

Maybe she could see the look of shock and confusion on his features, maybe it was her just mirroring the same back to him, but the air shifted, the energy between them not losing any of the viscous violence, but adding something else to it. Something needy and carnal. 

A dangerous arousal. 

Her teeth let go of his lip, the skin snapping back up where it belonged, and she rolled her hips beneath him, up into his erection, where he could feel the heat of her sex through his pants. He grunted, brows knitting together, and he didn’t have to think about the next move because she was lifting her head, neck straining to reach and capture his mouth with hers again. 

Her tongue slid into his mouth, the taste of their blood thick and heady in his mouth, and he moaned into it. The need to kill and the need to fuck dueling in his mind; the thought of combining both urges too exhilarating to ignore. It was clear she was just as conflicted, just as curious. 

He didn’t ignore it. Didn’t choose. He decided to ride both urges into battle with the other predator in the room.

**[[End Episode Credit Song]](https://youtu.be/MLRyIG0ZDzU) **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A list of only a few of the songs on Lucifer's murder playlist:  
> \- Rosenfeld: Like U  
> \- 3TEETH: Pumped Up Kicks (cover)  
> \- Spiderbait: Black Betty (Oh!Sabi Bounce Betty Bootleg)
> 
> Yell at me below!  
> I love it.


	4. Skeletonization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The righteous intent she thought she had seen in him bled away into the raging narcissism and misogyny she found in all men like him. 
> 
> “ _Fuck you,_ ” she sneered, resuming her grip on his throat. She squeezed, for good measure, and the growl that rumbled from his clenched teeth and parted lips sounded just as pleased as it did angry. He smirked at that, as good as a man could with a split lip and a woman’s hands pinning him down.
> 
> “That’s what I’m waiting for.” His eyes were darker then, the expression on his face purely animal and hungry. When she hit him again, knuckles painfully catching on his teeth, he grabbed her wrist before she finished the swing, growling in annoyance as a fresh cut stung his lip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** Artwork by the wonderful Luni! I love you!
> 
> Here we are, the last _real_ chapter. The next is an Epilogue. 
> 
> Please, heed the new tags. I'll even list them down below. I'm serious... _HEED_ them. If you gotta nope out, then do it. Nothing is sugar-coated in this chapter. It gets pretty dark and discusses some unsavory topics.
> 
> **Added tags:**  
>  **Sexual Sadism, Discussion of past-rape, Murder Porn, Murder Methods as Dirty Talk, Dead Dove content throughout, Judging Motives, Nothing kills the mood here, Rough Sex, When Two Doms Collide, Mommy Issues Resurface, Artistic Post-Murder Fantasies, Danse Macabre of Sex, Life is a Curse**
> 
> \--
> 
> Here is a continuation of Lucifer's Murder Playlist:
> 
> [Big Data (feat. Joywave) - Dangerous](https://youtu.be/nKsYCu3QkBA)  
> [Talking Heads - Psycho Killer (Remix) by Guimz et Melinda](https://youtu.be/WARX6xTYyH4)  
> [Marilyn Manson - Tainted Love (Allergic Dubstep Trap Remix)](https://youtu.be/ES3zv7CiOeg)  
> [Marilyn Manson - Killing Strangers](https://youtu.be/lOUMyh_bpRE)  
> [I Don't Know How But They Found Me - Choke](https://youtu.be/mvJjmWTg7Qo)
> 
> \--
> 
> unbeta'd, as usual.

* * *

**_Chloe_ **

She was burning on the inside. An electrical fire, with the source of the ignition molded between her splayed thighs. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so turned-on, let alone turned-on at all. 

Sex was not a significant part of Chloe’s life. Not since Dan. In her line of work, outside of the killing, she did only as much as necessary for the ultimate goal. Enough to distract and to gain the upper hand, not enough to give her any satisfaction. Any sexual arousal beyond the adrenaline-rushed thrill of waiting to kill. Not nearly enough.

But there, with the equally dangerous man between her legs, she felt it. The stirring of disturbed want that encouraged her sex to swell and gush, lubricate itself with desperation. She hated it. Feeling desperate, but it was a feeling she knew she could control, could reign-in. In fact, the man, Lucifer, felt just as desperate, physically anyway. 

The taste of his tongue was exciting, a heady mix of blood and spit, and that felt right. For her and for him. Their mouths battled, it couldn’t be called kissing, for what felt like an eternity. Everything felt long for people who didn’t do soft and emotional. Kissing wasn’t something she did, not something she ever felt inclined to do, but she found herself lost in his mouth, the way his teeth tugged on her lips and nipped on her tongue. The way his lips felt between her teeth, supple and giving. 

He settled firmly in the cradle of her hips, the impressively hard outline of his cock pressing deliciously against her thinly-clad clit. It throbbed, pulling a moan from her that she didn’t want to analyze then, not in his company. Not until she was alone and could berate herself in private. He rocked into her, trying to rut against something, seeking friction. The ignition to her fire. The hands on her throat were merely holding, no pressure behind them, and they slid down easily, hesitantly, cupping her breasts in an awkward grope. She could tell he was out of his depth, as well, wondered if he was just as starved of genuine arousal as she was.

But she was tired of being under him. Being under men pissed her off. It was more the gun-clenching fear that manifested from it than the position itself. The feeling she used her wits and skills to undo in brutal vengeance. The feeling remembered from the moment that changed her course in life forever. 

She unwrapped her legs from his waist and planted her feet on the bed. She used her hips to roll them over, grinning at the soft grunt that was forced out of Lucifer’s lungs at the surprise turn of events. One of her strong, delicate hands wrapped around his throat, blunt nails digging into soft flesh. He snarled, and the sound stirred-up embers deep in her gut, ones that fed off power and struggle. Her other hand tangled into his hairline, pushing his head back and down against the mattress. His eyes shone with more fight than his body. He didn’t try to pull against her grip, and his hands slid up her thighs only threatening violence, not delivering it. 

In normal circumstances, there would be a verbal exchange, some sort of conversation, but she was lost for words. She didn’t know what to say, wasn’t sure what normal people did with sex as an imminent act, undoubtedly about to happen. She had a man, strong and large, as beautiful as lethal, under her, and for the first time, she was unsure of what to do. 

Things never got that far for her. There was never the want for more than the feelings of cut-free testicals in her hand, sooner to be shoved down a still-screaming throat than anywhere near her ruined parts. 

She looked down at him, at the way his eyes were dark and half-lidded, desire clinging to the brown drowning in black. Lips parted in a half-snarl, flashes of pink-tinged teeth, shiny and wet. The dried blood caked in the stubble below his nose, his chin, the red tacky along his brow from where she had split it. He looked like sin and damnation combined, a dark angel splattered with blood and righteous intent. 

“Are you going to do anything, or are you inept at this, too?” He leered up at her, beginning to strain his neck and tug at her hold in his hair.The back of her hand cracked down across his cheek before she even realized she had let go of his throat. It wasn’t so much the wise-crack as it was the insinuation that she wasn’t good at what she did, was a failure in the situation that had gotten so quickly out of hand. She was flawless in her deeds, but she had never had someone like her before. Something close to an equal, but her mind wouldn’t bring him up to that level. 

The righteous intent she thought she had seen in him bled away into the raging narcissism and misogyny she found in all men like him. 

“ _ Fuck you,”  _ she sneered, resuming her grip on his throat. She squeezed, for good measure, and the growl that rumbled from his clenched teeth and parted lips sounded just as pleased as it did angry. He smirked at that, as good as a man could with a split lip and a woman’s hands pinning him down.

“That’s what I’m waiting for.” His eyes were darker then, the expression on his face purely animal and hungry. When she hit him again, knuckles painfully catching on his teeth, he grabbed her wrist before she finished the swing, growling in annoyance as a fresh cut stung his lip. 

Without any skill, just brute strength, he flipped them over, holding her down with a hand to her chest before he could get a knee over her stomach, pressing down into soft flesh and insides. It was a horrible sort of discomfort to have his weight posted onto a small surface area, directly above her liver like he was trying to squeeze the blood from it with his patella. He took another long look at her, hovering over her, haloed by the street lines streaming in from the bedroom window. Another glorious vision, blood dried and flaky on his forehead, making him look like a damnable stigmata of unholy sin. 

All it did was make her want him more. 

He wore the expression of someone weighing their options, deciding on their next move, and took his knee off her abdomen slowly, threatening action if she made a wrong move with a slight tilt to his head. 

Maybe he saw the hunger in her eyes, knowing he would get something he wanted, that she was on-board. His hands lowered to his pants and she forced herself up to sit and start working on the buttons on his ruined shirt. She tore the remainder at the top that she couldn’t quite get to and he reached behind himself to pull his arms free of the rolled sleeves, rounded shoulders bulging with the motion.

She drank him in, it was impossible not to. His skin was smooth and tan, a light dusting of hair on his chest and stomach, leading to a darker trail that disappeared down the front of his opened slacks. Small scars muttered across his body, new marks from their altercations standing out from the old. They told stories of their own, of a life of violence and bloodshed, and she wanted to lick them all. Taste their experience. 

He slid from the bed hurriedly, bending down to shove his pants down his thighs. Pulling the material free from his ankles, peeling off his socks, exposed the top of his upper back, his scapulae, and she saw the beginnings of much larger scars decorating the skin there. 

She only tore her eyes away once he stood back up to his full height, and he was looking at her with the type of dare in his eyes that showed just how little he would want to tell her about them. It was easy to lose interest, though, when you had all of  _ that _ in front of you. Free of clothing, she got a good look at the hefty package he carried in those slim-fit trousers. There would be no denying that it was impressive, but she would be caught dead before she ever told him that. 

“Like what you see, darling?” he implored, arms out at his sides in a flourish. The motherfucker. 

Chloe leaned back onto her elbows, legs splayed wide with her knees on the edge of the bed. She did her best to look indifferent, nonchalant, like she had seen better. “I think it’d look better dangling from a chain around my neck.” She arched one sharp brow and bit her bottom lip, thinking about the statement; the primal urge to exert dominance in such a grizzly fashion. 

He chuckled darkly at that. She remained eerily silent, kicking her feet up and down, like a girl would hanging over the side of a bridge. Unafraid, casual, the excited question of  _ what if I fall _ tickling her mind. 

“I can arrange that,” he commented, like an offering. “Not the chain part, of course, but if you want my cock in your neck, I can get it there.” He stepped forward, between her legs, towering above her like a beacon of hope and promise for brutality. She looked up at him, unaffected, eyes round and wide, feigning innocence. He lunged forward, one large hand wrapping around her chin, thumb and fingers digging into either side of the temporomandibular joints, the other wrapping her long hair around his fist, tugging harshly. A small whine escaped her forced-open mouth, a deep ache setting into her jaw from the force of his grip. 

She could feel the heat in her own eyes, hoped they boiled for him, hoped he could see it. He looked all too pleased with himself, with how easy he could pry her body to his will. The funny thing was that he knew she was allowing it, wasn’t fighting back, but he didn’t care. It was the image it created, feeding into his sadism. 

She would get her own feast, too.

“Once you’re no longer amongst the living, I can break your jaw,” he started, a poetic recital of what he could do to her still-warm corpse. “There would be no pesky gag reflex to fight against.” He said the words lowly, menacingly, bending down to lick at her parted lips, swallow her angry growl. She wrapped her ankles around his bare calves, but he paid it no mind; all it did was bring her lower half closer to his. “Down your throat I go.” 

He held her there, right where he wanted her, peering down like a hunter over a still-breathing game, deciding to wait it out or end its suffering. The tension was thick, anyone could have seen it,  _ felt _ it, even. There was no hiding it, their hunger for the other, the way their bodies seemed to move unconsciously towards each other. Neither of them addressed that. 

His grip on her jaw didn’t let up, so she was forced to talk through the painful grasp. “If you think that thing is going anywhere near my mouth, you’re more delusional than I thought.” The corners of his mouth twitched, drawing her gaze to his lips, stained and broken, and she fought the urge to taste them again. “Is that how you get the others to suck you?” she questioned, noticing the way his brows jumped up at the insinuation, the assumption. “They have to be dead to want you?” She yanked her head back, he released her with a small shove, and she clenched her teeth to soothe the ache in her jaw. 

He didn’t move away, even with the charged energy between them. They were both lost to it, so uncertain when they usually had total control. It was unsettling, the need to touch another body without the need to snuff out their breath. She hadn’t felt that in years, wasn’t even sure she could remember a time in which she wanted to  _ feel _ purely for the sake of feeling. She was waiting for a response, a rebuttal to her accusation, and she could see it in the tick of his jaw. 

If she was waiting for an attack, she would never admit it to herself. 

The hand around her throat was fast, sudden, but she didn’t even try to move away from it. She reached up and placed her own around his, and all he had to do was straighten his arm and she wouldn’t be able to reach, but he didn’t. The look in his eyes was dangerous, but she could tell he wanted it, wanted that feeling of having danger thrown back his way. He looked down between them, between her legs, at the way the sheer fabric practically glittered, wet and slick, in the night’s light from the windows. 

“And you’re not even dead yet.” His statement hung in the air, pregnant with tension. She was grateful that he didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t say how wet he could see she was. It was embarrassing, new, and she couldn’t think about it too much, not without bringing up old and traumatic feelings. Feelings that made her ashamed and degraded. 

His mouth was on hers in an instant, and she found herself leaning into it, into the aggressive kiss that was more bite than not. Maybe they both were addicted to it, the taste of a monster, flavor of the beast. He shoved her back down on the bed, and she pulled him by the throat all the same. 

“Did you think you could kill me?” he whispered over her lips, tongue trying to slide between her teeth. She bit him for the effort and he growled, hand tightening on her throat until she let go. His question sounded desperate, like he wanted to know, like he hoped the hear the answer she was certain of.

“I  _ know _ I can,” she grunted, pushing her feet into the mattress to shove herself back, take some of the pressure off her throat. 

Lucifer groaned, kneeling over her as he reached down between them with his other hand, looking a finger through the crotch of her soaked panties, tearing the delicate lace like it was nothing and tossing them to the side. She was excited, anticipatory, thoroughly exhilarated for what was to come next. 

They were panting, hesitant, new territory for the both of them. The silence stretched. The now-or-never moment hanging over them, menacing, intimidating. 

She was afraid she would chicken-out, scare-off like a wolf to flame, if they waited any longer. She dug her free hand into the meat of his shoulder, the one with the puncture wound from the ice pick she shoved into it, and he jumped, startled. It forced his hips forward and tip of his cock made contact with the slick folds of her sex. 

She gasped, mouth held open in surprise. He was no better off, eyes half-closed, lips wet from licking them. It opened up a small cut, and as if in slow motion, she watched a drop of blood fall from the abused skin, felt it hit her upper lip, the hot slide of it into her mouth. 

His resolve broke, whatever chain of uncertainty holding him back snapped, and he slammed into her in a single push, lips crashing together like on-coming trains.

**_Lucifer_ **

It was better than he had expected, as cliché as it sounded in his head. 

Sex had always been sufficiently fulfilling for him. It never felt amazing, not at first, and he always had to get himself going, get himself there. More often than not, he’d wait for whatever partner he had persuaded to occupy his bed to orgasm before he pulled out and tugged his cock aggressively for release. Always with imagined images in his head. 

It was never exciting enough. Never could be.

His specific breed of psychopathology didn’t allow fulfilling sex unless violence was included.

So far, sex with Chloe was more satsifying than any other interaction he had ever had. She shared his need for savagery. His need for control. The excitement with her, the thrill, was just as high as it had been the first time he ripped the life from another. 

He wanted to stay buried to the hilt inside of her, devour from the inside, but she ground her hips up into his, squeezing his throat as she grunted in frustration. His own was building up again, ready to burst through her sacrum if he could. 

His thrusts were long, deep, slow, giving himself the time to savour the tight, wet heat wrapped around his cock, the smooth skin of her thighs reluctantly wrapping around his hips. He could tell she wanted more, faster, but that didn’t matter. He was taking his pleasure from the body beneath him, from the same breed as him. It was feral when he thought about it, how fraudulent all others seemed. He couldn’t be himself with him, lest he be found out for what he was. With her, with the fellow killer he was inside of, he felt like himself with another human being for the first time since he was ruined at too young an age. 

Even as he fucked her, he could feel that he could still kill her. Looking down, her face hungry, teeth digging into her bottom lip, eyes boring into his with a kind of resentment he knew all too well, the similarity to his true victim was hard to ignore. It reminded him of who she was, of why he ordered her in the first place. She represented all that he despised in life, all the things he should have had but never did, all the things he was saving her own unfortunate offspring from, if we went through with it. 

He hadn’t realized his pace has slowed even more, that he was barely moving inside her, over her, that he had lost himself in his torturous thoughts once again and his body had quit responding. Her eyes traveled over his face, confused and annoyed, and then she huffed out an incredulous chuckle. The same kind of sound his mother always made when she caught him crying in a dirty corner, full of disappointment and forced responsibility. 

The hand on his throat slipped down his chest as she fell into a fit of laughter. Rage filled him instantly as the cackling rang through his ears, morphing into an older laugh, a maternal one, one that was never about fun, just entertainment as he cried. His hands were around her throat, and he only knew because the laughing stopped, replaced by choked gasping. 

He didn’t care that he was still buried inside of her, he squeezed like he always did, with enough pressure to stop breathing, allowing enough blood flow so that they had to suffer through the strangulation. His breathing was hard but even, exertion plus the relief of the end being near was a meditative state for him. He could do that for hours, long after their heart stopped, their body cooling beneath his fingers. 

A heel to the right side of his stomach, right against his liver, forced him to stop, and he found himself grateful for it. The pain of it made him crumble, curling in on himself as he fell to the side and Chloe took a heaving breath. Her eyes were wet from the strangulation, and the slight fear of near death still glazed them even as she climbed on top of him and dug a finger into the puncture wound on his shoulder. 

He would have yelled if he wasn’t still reeling from losing his senses and trying to kill her then and there. Luckily she had plenty of fight in her. He wasn’t ready to stop feeling less lonely with her. Wasn’t ready to stop playing with his toy before he inevitably broke it. 

“Typical,” she spat, looking down at him,  _ on _ him, shaking her head as she continued to dig into the wound. He whined, low, thankfully masculine, hands clenched at his sides, afraid to touch and lose himself again. “Men get too excited and can’t even keep a fucking pace.” 

“That’s not what happened,” he heard himself argue, but his voice sounded soft. He was losing his head, the part of him that kept him energetic and dangerous. He was on the down-hill slide towards the episodes of time after a kill, where he felt drained and disconcertingly morose. The pain she was causing was grounding. Keeping him in the moment, hopefully back to the anger and disgust that fueled him. 

She seemed satisfied with his answer, one groomed brow arched as her head tilted back. He could see the ligature marks forming on her neck in the shape of his hands. A sleeping, possessive beast was waking in him again at the sight. She looked like his, marked by his hands, imprinted, wearing them proudly. He was still hard, thankful that his adrenaline kept him physically aroused after being so close to enacting his justified murder. 

“It was a  _ who _ , wasn’t it?” she asked, rhetorical and condescending. His jaw ticked, and he knew she saw it. The shit-eating grin on her face widened darkly at the minute movement. “Was it your first? No?” she continued, studying the expressions he knew he couldn’t hide, not when the subject revolved around his origin. “Oh, I know. Does the big, bad, murderer have  _ mommy issues?” _ She cooed that last bit, condescending leaking through her tone like her sex against his cock. 

He hated that his length throbbed beneath her, his own sexual depravity working against him.

“Did mommy not give you enough attention?” She sank down onto him as she said it, and the low groan that erupted from his chest betrayed him. His hands shot to her hips with a bruising grip. He pushed her down, impaling her on the whole of his length, feeling her squirm against the pressure on her cervix. He loved feeling it, hitting the end of a tunnel that gave way to life. He loved thinking he could punish them where only their own flesh and blood creations had touched.

She tried to move, tried to bounce on his cock, but he held her down firm, reaching up with one hand to shove two fingers into her mouth, hook them behind her lower teeth. She bit him, but he dug the pads of his fingers into the soft underbelly of her tongue, hurting her more as she bit down harder. “She didn’t give me  _ any _ ,” he growled, pulling her head down, close to his own, reveling in how her eyes began to water. One of her hands fisted into his hair, tugging painfully, small pops of roots being liberated from his scalp, but she kept grinding down on him, through the discomfort he knew he was inflicting inside of her. “She let us starve, get beaten, all for drugs, money, and  _ cock _ .” He spat the last word, let his distaste be known, if it wasn’t obvious already. 

_ “Boo hoo _ ,” she mocked, speaking around the fingers in her mouth. A steam-whistle blew in his ears, and the hand on her hip shot up and wrapped around her throat again, forming a new handprint to the thin skin. He shoved the fingers in her mouth farther back, going as far as his knuckles would allow against the sharp edges of her teeth. He held her there, choking, gagging, taking the bite to his hand. The pain in his scalp intensified as she yanked on his hair, her other hand digging nails into the swell of his chest, scraping, clawing at him like the trapped animal she was, impaled on his spear. 

He hated that she seemed to know. That he was so fucking transparent with what created him. “And you,” he roared, taking his hand out of her mouth, keeping his grip on her throat. “What made you what you are, huh? Did daddy touch you at night? Tell you it was okay because  _ he loved you  _ and you were his  _ special little girl _ ?” 

“You’re fucking pathetic,” she ground out, gasping, nails still digging into his chest with intent, like she wanted to see his rotten core. “Don’t project your fragile feelings onto me

He would think she had a death wish if there wasn’t such ferocious determination in her eyes. He was frozen again, unsure of what to do. Her tone arrested him, bringing back horrible memories he had done everything he could think of to erase from his mind.

She talked like a mother, berated him like a disappointed lover, and it was all too familiar, conflicting his wants. He wanted to kiss the breath out of her lungs, keep it to himself. He wanted to watch her pretty corpse rot in a display that belonged in a fine art gallery, titled  _ Belle Mort _ . He could even hear [ _ Lacrimosa _ ](https://youtu.be/k1-TrAvp_xs) , the symphony and choir echoing in the expanse of the room, playing on repeat.

Lucifer sat up, Chloe remaining speared on his lap, so he could bring himself closer. Their torsos were pressed together, and neither would admit how perfectly they seemed to fit that way. How her soft curves molded against the swell of his chest and the cradle of his narrow hips. He grabbed the hair at the back of her head, tangling his fingers into the matted mess they had made of the deep golden strands, yanking her head back, baring her throat for him. He licked a long, wet stripe from the hollow between her collar bones, over the moving cartilage over her thyroid, up to the line of her jaw. 

“If  _ daddy _ didn’t hurt you, then who did?” he asked it like a fact, soft and breathy against salty skin. He rolled his hips up into her, wanting to devour her, eat her throat out. Splash the walls with vivid red, a visual scream. His teeth sank into the skin over her pulse, not enough to break, but enough to leave a mark in the shape of his teeth for days. 

“The director for the movie I was in,” she started, tugging on his hold in her hair, feigning a hope for escape. “I was 19, and he raped me on the set. I tracked him down a few years ago and killed him.” She was glaring up at the ceiling, eyes wet with anger, resentment, and he could feel her move around on his lap, unconsciously trying to shut her legs. 

He knew all too well what it was like to be at the mercy of another, and it was one he didn’t take too kindly anymore. He was on the other end of that spectrum, just as Chloe was. A strange jealousy welled up in his chest at her confession. She killed her oppressor, a man who took something from her that couldn’t be returned. He was never given the opportunity; that was struck from him well before he grew into the feral beast he had become. Well before he even knew he could use surrogates to unleash his rage on. 

“We both have our terrible creators,” she offered softly, swallowing thickly, throat bobbing with the motion. 

She had made a grave mistake, one few others had made with their last breath, last beat of their unfortunate hearts. 

“We’re not the same!” he shouted, yanking her hair harshly, forcing a wince on her pretty, bloody face. “You got rid of your demon. I’m still haunted by the  _ thing _ that made me this way, and no matter how many worthless whores I kill, it never goes away!” He arranged her head so she was forced to look right at him. She wouldn’t close her eyes, she was too proud for that, so he met her stare full-force. He placed a closed fist against her sternum, a slow threat, like he could punch through her body and squeeze the life from her heart.

“Not even you could do it. I could strangle the scream from your lungs, eviscerate all your putrid whore insides, turn your fucking teeth into cufflinks.” He spewed off all the lewd things he could think of to do to her, with her body, and he wasn’t sure where it was coming from. She brought out the artist in him, the maestro of pain and suffering. “I’m not the thing that goes bump in the night. I’m the thing that knocks on your fucking door.”

“No, what you  _ are _ is another man with a god complex, who just likes to make women suffer.” He was impressed with how level-headed she sounded. She wasn’t afraid or anxious. She was calm, if seething disgust could be calm. 

“Is that all I need to do? Make you suffer?” He looked her up and down, down to where they were connected. It was a pretty sight, those glistening lips on either side of the base of his cock. His eyes trailed back up her body, wishing he had thought to tear her bra off, as well. Her tits looked like they would be amazing. It was too late for entertaining gestures. They were well past that. “Will that make you stop playing Who’s the Most Fucked-Up?” It was his turn to mock her, and it worked. She snarled, snapping her teeth like she could reach out and bite him. He almost let her. Then her demeanor changed, the natural way people like them could switch masks within a blink. 

She smirked, the grin dripping with wickedness. It made his gut clench and his balls swell. “No. I don’t suffer for any man anymore. My suffering is my own. Just like I have to suffer through your fucking mommy issues for a good lay.” The silence stretched between them. He was impressed, again, even at his own expense. 

“Well, if that’s what you want,” he started, cutting himself off to finish with actions instead. He flipped her over, onto her stomach, shoving her face into the mattress with a hand to the side of her head. He could hear her muffled shouts, probably of protest, but he tuned them out easily. Being a psychopathic narcissist had its perks. He pressed his other between her shoulder blades, pinning her down. Her hands were fisted into the duvet cover and nearly tore through when he slammed into her mercilessly. 

He knew he was leaving marks, bruising and scratching her skin, and it thrilled him, the prospect that she would walk around branded by him. It was that thought that nearly sent him reeling, nearly made him lose focus on fucking Chloe stupid as he chased his orgasm. It was then that he realized he wasn’t planning on killing her anymore. He was thinking about her walking free, feeling him for days. Remembering who she had been with. He shifted his hand on her head, stuffing as much of his fist as he could into her open, panting mouth. Her teeth dug in, and it hurt, but it only added to the intensity of the pleasure he was taking, unknowingly giving. 

He was aware enough to feel her walls clamp around his cock, still pumping furiously into her contracting heat. Her muscles pulsed and her screams could be heard around the makeshift gag of his fist. His own orgasm startled him, and as he pumped her full of his seed, he imagined it settling inside of her, sliding between her thighs, coating her in all the evidence needed to label her a whore. 

He panted, loud and ragged, as he came down, shoving Chloe further into the bed as he moved to sit on the edge. She was still breathing, he could hear it, and for once that sound didn’t agitate him. Visions of his mother passed behind his closed eyes. He had seen her fucked-out enough, uncaring that her young children could see the reflective slide of milky white between her legs as she stumbled out of her room, beyond high and cock-drunk. 

A dip in the bed and the light to the ensuite turning on brought his thoughts back to the room. Every split in in his skin, every wound, was bleeding fresh again. He could taste it, feel it, and the brutality was stained all over the bed, somehow on the floor, too. Usually that amount of blood, traceable DNA would force him into action, forming a game plan on how to get around it and not be caught. Since no murder occured, he was fine. Safe. Still unnoticed. That made him chuckle, no murder  _ yet _ . 

He was too busy laughing at his own joke to notice a play in the shadows from the bathroom light, and he didn’t see the glint from the metallic beside lamp before it was held up above his head. He didn’t have time to react before the blunt force from the lamp impacted his skull. He wasn’t unconscious, but mobility was out of the question, and he could only watch through blurry vision as Chloe stepped out of his line of sight from where he collapsed back onto the soiled sheets.

**_Chloe_ **

He was bleeding again. She didn’t use the sharp end of the base on the lamp. She wanted to incapacitate him, not kill him, and that left her feeling conflicted. Somewhere through their affair, she realized she didn’t want to kill him. She hated that she saw him as some sort of endangered animal, in need of preservation. 

She wanted him alive to know that she had bested him. That he hadn’t won. That he let an object of all his rage get out of his grasp. She liked thinking that the shame of his failure would haunt him alongside the memories of his mother. She liked thinking that she might hold a a special place in his nightmares. 

He was blinking, breathing unsteady but strong. She wouldn’t take any chances of his state changing before she was ready. Her underwear were nowhere in sight, destroyed anyway, so she grabbed his ruined shirt off the ground and slid it over her shoulders. The rolled sleeves hit her at her wrists, and the hem covered enough of her that she could walk out without her ass hanging out.

She would have to come up with a charming story for the torn, bloody shirt, though. If she were to be seen before reaching the room with her regular clothes in it. 

She started walking to the door, planning on finding her bag, shoes, and used needle before leaving the mess for Lucifer to deal with, but she stopped. He was still breathing on the bed, moving more than he had a moment ago. She needed to leave or she’d lose her window to disappear unbothered. But she couldn’t.

Even in that state, naked and bleeding, moaning from what was undoubtedly a concussion, he was beautiful. She couldn’t remember the last time she saw a man as beautiful. Bathed in moonlight and downtown Los Angeles glow, he was breathtakingly stunning. 

She could see the little boy, the one she imagined he had been, beaten and hurting. The mother in her recoiled at the thought. Even with what she did regularly, she couldn’t fathom ever neglecting her child for anything. She did what she did  _ for _ her. In a way, the man she had been with was tragic, a monster, but no less devastating. 

She was walking back to him before she knew it. She crawled over the bed until she was looking down at his upside down face. He could see her, she knew, and his brows pulled together weakly. 

She leaned down, bending at the elbows, and pressed her lips gently to his. It was the softest act of the night. He didn’t kiss back, at first, but then his mouth opened and she could lick in for a final taste of bloody horror and lust. She pulled back, kitten-licked his split lip, pulling a soft gasp from him. “Now we have something alive to haunt us.” 

Leaving before he could deliver a response, she hurried down the stairs, gathered her meager belongings, and walked for the penthouse door. She placed the Do Not Disturb sign on the outer doorknob and closed it with a click. She wouldn’t analyze why she felt a new hollow feeling form in her chest, and she would never admit that it could belong to a man. 

  
  
  


**_Lucifer_ **

Once the throbbing in his head became tolerable, he rolled himself off the bed. He slid into his pants on unbalanced feet, unable to find his shirt. He found her underwear crumpled in the sheets on the ruined bed, so she shoved them into his pocket

His only souvenir that was permanent. The marks decorating his flesh would fade, leave only faint scars that he couldn’t appreciate.

Her bag was gone, so were her shoes and dress that she had been wearing. He couldn’t find the needle. The woman knew how to track her brass. 

The evening left him more emotionally drained than he had been in years. He was angry at himself for being so careless, to think that he could just play with his food before he ate it. He rolled his eyes, grumbling with himself as he fished his cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, still in the same place he had put it over the couch. He was pleased to see his waistcoat was still there. At least he had a full suit. A shirt was much easier to buy and get tailored. 

He sat on the couch, still naked, smoking in the non-smoking room like the true rebel he branded himself. He would already have to pay a fortune for the ruined linens and objects, tacking on a smoking fee wouldn’t even sting. 

He hurt everywhere, but he felt more satisfied than he should. He was challenged beyond measure; something he hadn’t experienced since honing his craft. Chloe was something to win, something to strive to obtain. He couldn’t tell what he wanted more: to keep her chained in the basement of his club to use and abuse whenever he wanted, or to be the one to end her life, watch all that fire and beauty bleed from her eyes. He knew she deserved something special. Something to put her above the rest. She was the prized animal many hunters wanted to kill, the most dangerous game around. 

Mounting her head as a trophy above his bed was an enticing thought. He could hire an artist to get the color of her eyes right, paint the glass ones to match. Leave her mouth open to fit his cock into perfectly. 

He let those thoughts push him into a light slumber on the sofa. Cigarette neglected and burned out between his fingers. He’d deal with the mess in a few hours. It wouldn’t be hard for him to charm some lonely cleaning lady into forgetting about the blood on the sheets. She wouldn’t even notice his face if he left his shirt unbuttoned and used his piano fingers to play her perfectly. 

He would think of Chloe the entire time.

They never tell tales of when two monsters meet and leave each other to lick their wounds, so he’s not sure what to expect. No rulebook to follow. Just the unwavering paranoia for a second clashing that may or may not ever come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooohhh.  
> Yeah... I regret nothing, and neither do they.  
> Maybe. We'll see... Still an Epilogue to go ;)
> 
> Come yell at me below, and if you feel I've missed something that needs to be tagged, please let me know!  
> I appreciate it!
> 
> Until next time, darklings.
> 
> PS: it's okay... you can like murder porn... doesn't make you a bad person *thumbs up*


	5. Epilogue: Disarticulation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, here we are at the end. Of this part. Yes. You read me right. There will be more… at some point. Thanks for sticking with me through this one. I’m surprised by all of the positive feedback, and all the feedback of people horrifyingly enjoying themselves made me all warm and fuzzy XD. Enjoy this not-so-soft epilogue.
> 
> **Added tags for this chapter:**  
>  soliciting to murder, necrophilia, poor decisions, open ending
> 
> *****A quick word on the necrophilia tag. For all those that are concerned with the necrophilia tag (and honestly, valid) I’ll have a spoilery explanation down in the end-notes.**
> 
>   
> _Artwork by the lovely Luni *big hugs*_

* * *

**_Chloe_ **

It was Dan’s weekend with Trixie, and Chloe followed her daughter’s bounding jog up to her ex-husband’s door. She had no ill will towards Dan, not anymore. He was a great father and always made it a point to show Chloe he didn’t hold their break-up against her. It had been mutual, and they had realized through the years that they were much better off without each other. Dan still had a pulse, and Chloe was free from scrutiny about where she dazed off too when she day-dreamed, or why she had dried blood under her nails. 

Their arrangement worked perfectly. She didn’t like not having her daughter, but time with Dan meant Chloe had time for her more lucrative hobbies. She was sure Dan was ignorant to her profession as an escort, but she knew she walked a thin line working in the same city he still arrested people in. 

Luckily most of her  _ safe _ clients had their priorities straight, and would much rather eat a cyanide pill than say they spent tens of thousands on high-end hookers. 

Trixie attacked him the moment he opened the door, rushing past him in the next second to get to her room there. It left Dan chuckling, so Chloe forced her own awkward huff of laughter at his expense. 

“So,” Dan started, rubbing the back of his neck. The parting ways was still cumbersome, and she wasn’t sure why. It was probably something to do with the feelings she didn’t know how to understand. “Want to come in and have a b-” 

“I have to run,” she interrupted, biting her lower lip to look guilty. “But, can I use your computer real quick? I left my phone at home and need to check an address.” A reasonable enough excuse for her.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he stammered, stepping to the side so she could slip past him. “It’s in the kitchen.”

“Thanks!” she smiled over her shoulder, watching as he shut and locked the door. Dan’s laptop was provided by the LAPD, which meant he had access to law enforcement databases, even from the comfort of his own home. Being a detective gave him that ability. He had multiple passwords and other safeguards in place to keep confidential information protected. Chloe knew them all, and he was none the wiser. 

It was open on the kitchen counter, and she opened a new tab and typed the names of a few wine & book stores she had heard some of the other girls she worked with talking about. Honestly, she liked the idea of sitting down with a bottle of wine and a nice book, maybe the smell of cigars in the air. She needed to leave a footprint in case Dan decided to check the history on his laptop. 

Clicking back to the desktop, she opened the LAPD intranet that housed all of the populous databases. She was looking for someone in particular. She had been hearing along the grapevine that one of the most popular nightclubs in the area was hosting a half-off entry free with three free drinks in celebration of the owner’s birthday. The main attraction would be a visit from the owner himself.  _ An Evening with the Devil _ was what the ads and flyers were calling it. Even with nothing but a black silhouette with horns, she knew it was him. She  _ hoped _ it was him.

Couldn’t help but realize the horns looked all too natural, but maybe that was just her knowledge of the true demon lurking beneath the pretty face.

Using the LAPD’s databases to check recent luxury car rentals and 5-star hotel reservations, she was certain she had found him. 

Logging out of the intranet and leaving the wine & bookstore search results up for effect, she nudged the laptop to the side just as Dan had come to lean against the door jam, crossing his arms. Apparently he decided he had waited long enough in the foyer giving her privacy, not to appear like the nosey ex-husband. It was his house, afterall.

“Find what you need?” he asked, a small smile on his lips. 

“Yes, thanks,” she sighed, looking relieved to try and hide the mild panic that arose at his question. “I’m gonna go get wasted in public, read a book, and pass out by nine like an old lady.” He laughed at her supposed evening plans, arms dropping to his sides now that he was at-ease. 

“What a rager,” her joked, waiting for her to walk back towards the door. 

“Totally,” she replied, just as lightly, unlocking the door for herself. “Give your dad a hard time, Monkey!” she yelled out, hoping her daughter would hear. Dan rolled his eyes, but the huge grin on his face gave him away. 

It was moments like that that reminded her she was happy she hadn’t killed him. 

They said their only slightly awkward goodbyes before Chloe hopped in her car and started to drive into the heart of the city. The birthday event at the club wasn’t for another two days, and he wasn’t due to check into the hotel until the night before. She had plenty of time to erange a thing or two for his arrival. The reasons behind wanting to do what she was thinking was something she didn’t ponder on too long. Call it professional courtesy, call it homicidal pining, whatever it was, she was drawn to the prospect.

Driving through the busy evening streets, she decided she would go to one of those bookstores she had looked up on Dan’s computer. A solid enough alibi for an evening where it wouldn’t be needed. It always worked out that way. Books and booze would be the perfect setting to plan a night of retribution and violence for a confidante. 

  
  


**_Lucifer_ **

The Beverly Wilshire Four Seasons looked executive. The President himself would have no problem staying in it. From the White House-esque exterior to the extremely lavish penthouse suite, the Beverly Wilshire was everything Lucifer looked for in accommodations and comforts when in L.A. It had been months since he’d been back, but one of his clubs,  _ Lux _ , was hosting a special birthday event, and he just couldn't resist an entire night revolving around himself, nor could he resist the potential lovers he was bound to collect. 

News of the event had stirred an array of excited and wary feelings in him. The thought of being in the same city as Chloe again was highly enticing, but the severity of their first and last meeting was enough to make him wonder. Neither had promised the other a  _ life _ card, in any fashion. They hadn’t even agreed to not kill the other, it just didn’t happen. She left with the promise of haunting, and she had done just that. 

She haunted his dreams, day and night. It was her face, more often than not, that he saw as he drained the life from a simple whore. She was starting to take precedence over his mother, and he didn’t have the mental stability to open that can of fucked-up worms. 

He took the offer to make an appearance at his establishment, to make an event of it, and a small part of him hoped she would see the ads for it, that maybe her employer would send a few girls out that way, and she would offer to include herself in the line-up. The prospect of another meeting with her made his stomach flutter, all the possibilities flooding his imagination. 

The remainder of the private jet ride was spent sipping on fine bourbon and flirting with the two flight attendants. They were beautiful, all legs and tits, one with black hair, the other with fiery red. The flirting led to other enjoyable ways of passing the time from London to L.A. It led to him face-fucking the raven-haired beauty, ruining her makeup, while he kissed the other, his tongue trying to go as deep into her mouth as his dick was in the other’s throat. 

He came down her throat, lips stretched wide over the base of his cock as she choked on his throbbing length, drowning in his cum. The red-head’s lip was between his teeth, he growled into her mouth as he finished. He sat back and watched as they got each other off, and when they landed, he disembarked the jet without a second glance.

\--

Finally in the penthouse, he dropped his luggage off by the mirror-framed bed, white sheets and duvet. It looked crisp and cool, and he couldn’t wait to slide into the bed and feel clean and clinical. He needed a shower first. Cleanliness was important to him, and even though he never felt like he could scrub the decay of his childhood from his skin, not even with the help of scalding water and exfoliating loofahs, he always felt better after. 

A small, white envelope sat on the bed, and it only  _ just _ caught his eye because there was black writing scrawled on the front. It was probably a welcome letter from the staff, a  _ thank you for staying with us, Mr. Morningstar, call down for a complimentary bottle of our finest champagne _ note. 

He’d open it after he cleansed himself of transatlantic travel and slut spit. 

The steam from the multi-head shower follows him back out to the bed, plush towel around his hips. He had almost forgotten about the note on the bed, tucked up against the down pillows, blending in perfectly. He almost didn’t open it, but the lack of Beverly Wilshire Four Seasons embossment caught his attention, as did the writing on the front. In neat, printed lettering, the envelope said  _ Knock Knock _ . He stared at it, one had outstretched, ready to grab it, but he didn’t. 

It took him a long moment of anxious contemplation before he thought he figured it out. Excitement warmed his core, a sharp inhale and a lick of his lips, he was leaning over to grab it. If he was correct in his assumption, it was from Chloe, and the label played homage to the anecdote about himself he had given her. That he didn’t hide in the shadows, that he knocked right on your door. The monster in plain sight. 

The feel of terry cloth against his hardening cock was enough to make him groan. He had grown accustomed to getting hard at the first thought of her, but the potential proximity increased it by ten-fold. He brought the envelope up to his nose and inhaled, trying to see if it smelled like her. 

It didn’t. 

He dumped the contents of the envelope into his hand, two pieces of cardstock the size of business cards landed in his palm. One was a headshot, with Cain’s escort service’s logo in the bottom right corner. A woman was smiling up at him front his hand, light brown hair, golden highlights, large, glassy eyes peering through her chiseled features. His breath caught in his chest, blood running cold. The resemblance to his mother was astounding, uncanny, and he felt his heart rate soar just at the image. 

With a shaky hand, he turned the card over. The woman’s name was Charlotte, she was exceptionally tall, thin, beautiful in the way women slightly older than him were. He could see the subtle signs of  _ experience _ on her face, could see the jutted appearance of her cheekbones and sunken eyes. He knew that look, what it meant. She was a mother. She was as perfect of a pick as he could have done. 

The resemblance to his mother made his hands twitch, ache with an anticipatory urge to snuff all signs of life from her. 

The other card was blank on one side, the other contained two lines of writing. 

His Oxford education ensured he knew enough Latin to get by with phrases. One of his clubs was named  _ Lux _ for god sake, a hilarious juxtaposition on his part. The first line read:  _ Mortem alicui persolver _ . To pay-out death to another. To give them what they deserve. It was perfect.

The second line was smaller, less professional: a simple  _ happy birthday _ . 

He smiled. It had to be from her. She had to have seen the ads for  _ Lux’s _ event, his birthday event.

It was a present.

Without a second thought, he walked over to the telephone on the nightstand on the opposite side of the bed. He dialed 0. “Hello, this is Lucifer Morningstar. I’d like to order room service.” Once the order was made, he had 30 minutes to get himself ready, for everything. He dressed in black slacks, black shirt, rolled the sleeves, slid into some fine Italian loafers. He dimmed the lights, made himself a drink, lit a cigarette, and waited for his hand-picked gift to arrive. 

He wanted to look out of the window, see if he could spot her on the pavement below, but he didn’t want to ruin the illusion by seeing that she wasn’t really there, watching. He would allow himself the thrill of thinking she was just as excited, watching him unwrap her gift with expert precision and juvenile joy. 

\--

**[Lucifer's downward spiral](https://youtu.be/D1bCu7RFt5Y) **

Charming the woman had been easy enough. Lucifer always had a way with older women, they enjoyed his experience, his style, the face and body he had been blessed with. Luring her into a sense of security had been so simple, almost laughable. It took little time to get her on the bed, dress hiked up to her navel, her model-length legs flayed wide and kicking as she struggled against the fatal grip on her throat. 

He got there quicker that time. He usually drew it out, took hours to play with his ignorantly trapped prey, but he was too excited. Charlotte was a gift from Chloe, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it, about  _ her _ . 

He hadn’t been so eager to get to it since his first handful of kills. He’d honed his craft in the years, dampened his enthusiasm, took his time, only starting when he was fully comfortable and on top of them. 

Charlotte had put up a bit of a fight, telling him to be careful not to bruise the goods. He had shrugged it off, told her had paid for the goods. Her not trying to leave then was the lid on her coffin. Not screaming loud enough when her throat wasn’t fully constricted under his hands was the dirt on top, scooped one shovelful at a time.

There was no school for murder, no classes on homicidal tactics. They never quite told you how hard it was to strangle someone to death, but he had learned to keep his breathing even, to not worry about blood flow just as much as airflow. As he stared down at Charlotte’s silent-scream face, he could already see the petechial hemorrhaging popping up below her eyes, in the whites of her eyes. Then her face wasn’t her face, the one so close to nightmare-fuel memories; it was Chloe’s face. Except she wasn’t horrified, wasn’t trying to scream with the stale air in her lungs. She was smiling up at him, neck squeezed to an unnatural diameter, eyes wide with want and not terror. 

His cock responded to it, filling up from the half-hardness he had been held at most of the evening. She was moaning, pleading for more, for harder, in a hoarse, forced whisper. He blinked, shaking his head when Charlotte’s face returned, features started to slacken as her brain at the last molecules of oxygen it could devour. 

He growled, Chloe’s face returning in the next blink. Her eyes were begging him, he could see it, her face was practically  _ demanding _ him to give her everything he had. So he did. He took one hand off her throat, going for his belt and fastenings on his slacks. Once his cock was free, painfully hard and leaking at the tip, he shoved the underwear out of his way and slammed in.

It hurt, the rough friction of too-dry tugging at his skin, her skin, but it was fine. She would take it, could take it. Was taking it. The hand he had used was back on her throat again, and Chloe’s face was still there. It was working, the thrill was substantially more like that. 

He squeezed her throat harder and harder, his hands and forearms burning with the effort, but he couldn’t stop. Chloe’s face was still smiling, her moans and gasps echoing in his head like they did in his dreams. She was his ghost and he was living out his haunted fantasy of ending her and filling her all in the same go. 

A sickening pop reverberated through his hands, but her face was still there, still baiting him and pushing for more. He fucked her, the way not getting any smoother, but it still didn’t matter. He had her. He was getting both of his depraved fantasies, and it was driving him over the edge way before he was ready. 

He came with deep groan, hips rutting into a still form as he rode the waves that seemed to never end. He let go of her throat, leaning down onto his elbows to catch his breath. His face was in the crook of her neck, but he couldn’t hear the moans anymore, he couldn’t hear anything other than the blood rushing in his ears and his own harsh breaths. 

There was no muscle tone around his cock, there was no writhing beneath him. Everything was still. He leaned up and was reminded of reality. Charlotte’s face was back, her horrified expression more passive, flat, eyes no longer shining. He was still breathing hard when he noticed her neck, red and bruised, a strange kink in the long column of it. The pop he had felt had been her neck breaking, and it had been a while since he had lost control like that. 

The usual relief didn’t flood him at the sight, he was left feeling more disappointed than anything for having missed it. The fantasy had been amazing, killing Chloe as she begged for his cock, but it tainted the real killing. Surprisingly, he was still hard inside of her, and a short jerk of his hips allowed him to feel the slick slide of his cum around his cock. A lubrication that would make everything better. 

He dared to look at Charlotte’s face, but all he saw was Chloe’s, that time still and lifeless. Just as beautiful as he knew her corpse would be. He took a steadying breath in, Chloe’s face still clear in his imagination, gave flesh through Charlotte’s body. 

He hadn’t done it before. He had never crossed that line. Jerking off over a dead body was one thing, fucking it was another. Charlotte’s cum-filled hole, lacking any of the tightness that living women had, was still warm and accepted his cock just as well. 

He wasn’t sure if it was hopeful imagination or depravity, but Chloe’s face stayed over Charlotte’s well into the next round. He only stopped after the body had grown cold.

**[Chloe's end-song](https://youtu.be/Jzqa9_Y3O8A) **

**_Chloe_ **

She had watched the company car pull up and drop Charlotte off from the parking lot of the Beverly Wilshire. There were no streetlights above to illuminate her, nothing around to make her own car seem occupied in the sea of unoccupied ones. The make and model of her car was far inferior to those surrounding her, but in the black of night, it wasn’t as noticeable. 

Hours went by and Chloe had fought with the urge to enter and see if she could hear anything from outside the penthouse door. She wasn’t working that night, she had no reason to be there, the staff wouldn’t give her access without the proper attire and an  _ order _ placed. She was forced to be a blind spectator. 

The company wouldn’t know how to look for Charlotte. They knew what hotel she had been ordered to, had no idea of the recipient of her services. Hotels were used as the third-party, to keep both escort and client safe and anonymous, for the most part. It was important to the clients to be untraceable, to have their lewd behaviors hidden. The problem with hiring sex for money, exuberant amounts of money, was that the people getting a percentage of the earnings (aka, the hotels) would never hurt the client’s trust. They made way too much off being a 5-Star whorehouse for them to ever report anything. 

It was dangerous if meeting the right client.

Chloe had given Charlotte over to the hands of someone dangerous.

She didn’t feel bad; the woman deserved it. In the few years Chloe had been working as an escort, she had seen Charlotte’s children taken from her and returned by CPS eight times. She couldn’t believe the state kept awarding the kids back to a woman like that. A women who used her earnings for drugs. The track marks were hidden between her fingers and toes, but a keen eye could spot them. 

She waited until dawn, just as the sky was fading into navy blue. No screams, no signs of the violence she knew had to have occurred in the penthouse. It was the start of a new day, a day with one less bad mom in it. She started her car and drove away, wondering how long it would take before Charlotte appeared on the news. 

She wondered if Lucifer would leave his version of a  _ thank you _ card at the scene, on the corpse. She wondered if he would find a way to dump the body, since he had to stay there another night. She wondered if he would leave Charlotte there, in the room with him, a pretty reminder of his deeds. She would be lying if she said she didn’t think about him being in such a predicament, about him being forced to dispose or to keep until he left. 

For all she wanted to touch him again, she wanted to see him struggle, see him at a disadvantage. 

It was only her nature to try and take out the competition, even if that competition had been the best night she’d ever had that didn’t involve murder. 

What she refused to accept was her bestial need to have him again. To dangle his life in front of him, to bring a sense of fear to those cold, dead eyes that she saw every time she closed her own.

**_Lucifer_ **

Charlotte’s body was still in the room. He had been quick to act and not think about the aftermath. He had moved her to the jacuzzi bathtub, opting to only shower since he hadn’t been able to get into a full bath since one of his mother’s Johns had tried to drown him. The bathtub made clean-up easy, all the disgusting things a body did after life left it was not ideal for bedding or carpet. 

He had showered the night before, after he had done everything, but he always had the best daydreams in the steamy shower, where reality was warped by vaporized water. When he closed his eyes, flashes of bodies on white sheets, his and Chloe’s, rutting together as red pools into the dips of the mattress. Blood was everywhere, staining the white, staining their skin, making the glide of their flesh slick and sticky where blood began to dry. A mangled corpse beside them rocked in time with their movements. There was no telling if it were male or female, there was too much missing, too much open and spread about. Things that should be inside, not out. 

His fantasies with Chloe had grown increasingly violent, increasingly destructive. He found himself dreaming of ripping bodies open, decorating Chloe in their insides, feeding her their heart before eating the tongue out of her mouth. The more violent, the more sexual, and he was sure his sexual sadism was reaching new heights with her in mind.

If he were honest, he was frightening himself with how much he wanted to hurt others before hurting her, the final course to his blood-and-sex crazed meal. 

It always ended with her, though. 

The problem was that he wanted them to remain fantasies and not reality. He was afraid of what would happen if he made it reality. Would he no longer have those haunting fantasies? Would he lose her forever if he got rid of her? 

The game they were playing was better. It won-out, in the end. 

Like a long-distance love affair between evil and wicked, leaving gifts in return for physical presence. Their only concern being if they'd kill the other before the first reuniting touch. 

Corpses left as cold, bloody valentines. An invitation. An affectionate threat. A trail of blood and tears for their murderous lover. A love song written with bodies, morbidly poetic, their own seductive language. 

A red door painted black. An invitation and a funeral. The loser the first one to turn the knob. 

There were no winners in their game. 

**[End Credits Song](https://youtu.be/R75UCeRAMGA) **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Necrophilia tag explanation**
> 
> There is a small section in the fic where Lucifer kills Charlotte while envisioning Chloe's face. He continues to fuck her even after he realizes she's dead. He does this until the body goes cold. I don't go into _too_ much detail there, but it's definitely discussed and described.
> 
> \--
> 
> Well, there we have it. Two homicidal fucks fall into a sick form of lust and obsession, all while desperately wanting to both kill and not kill the other. There's just no rest for the wicked.  
> As I mentioned, I've come up with a one-shot for this fic, so it'll be a series... and, honestly, I could just keep this shit coming.  
> If this has been your sick, twisted jam, then be on the look-out for a new part in this depraved tale, just have no time frame of when I can actually get around to it. Cross-country moves will do that to you!  
> Thanks again for entertaining my fantasies with me. You're the best!
> 
> _disappears into the void_

**Author's Note:**

> A shorter first chapter, but it gave just enough background to understand where each of them are coming from. A look at why they are the way they are. I felt it important to give just a bit on their histories, but this won't be an origin story. This is about them meeting, and what comes out of that. 
> 
> Come yell at me in the comments. I live for your feedback.  
> Feel free to ask questions, to clear things up for yourselves. I want to answer them, maybe give a little insight into the hows and whys.
> 
> Don't worry, I have a bunch of other things going for you guys! This will definitely be a slower-to-update project. 
> 
> Until next time...


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